Children of the Revolution
by Joodiff
Summary: It's the autumn of 1972, and Grace is a post-graduate student in London. With one disastrous relationship behind her, she's happy to just concentrate on her research. Then she encounters the rebellious younger brother of one of her housemates... Pre-series fic. T-rated for language. Complete. Enjoy!
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing

* * *

 **Children of the Revolution**

by Joodiff

* * *

Henry Kissinger has told the world that peace may be at hand, and pictures of the increasingly-infamous Watergate Hotel are back on the front pages of all the newspapers, but for Grace Foley it's just a so-far unremarkable late-October afternoon in London. The morning's heavy rain is a distant memory, though the light breeze has an autumnal chill that's been missing since she returned to the capital after a long-overdue visit to her family. As she walks along Elm Road only half-listening to Valerie's grumbling complaints about undergraduates in general and their brand-new housemates in particular, she's thoroughly enjoying the sudden crispness of the air. The traditional thick winter smog will soon close in on the big city, she has no doubt, but for now –

"You're not listening to me, are you?" Val complains, her tone tetchy. "Honestly, Grace, sometimes it feels like I do nothing but talk to myself."

"Sorry," she murmurs in apologetic reply, and it seems to be enough, because the scathing tirade promptly continues. She likes Valerie, though, despite her notorious intolerance towards anyone who annoys her even just once. Likes her enormously, in fact. They've known each other for several years and they're the same age, if following wildly different academic paths, and they also share similar tastes in a great many things, from popular music to literary classics. She's interesting, too, Valerie. The witty, intelligent, and fiercely ambitious product of a lesser branch of a large and vaguely notorious South London family. A branch that has awkwardly tried throughout the post-war years to ascend towards the lower middle-classes in a tenacious attempt to escape from a long, long history of illegitimacy, illiteracy, criminality, and harsh urban poverty.

It's a tough, colourful background that Grace recognises and understands; a story not too dissimilar to her own, despite notable differences in geography. Substitute factories and mines for docks and street markets, and she suspects there's not much to choose between the two families. Even the cast of characters is broadly the same: the heavy-drinking grandfathers who fought in the muddy trenches of the first war, the gruff fathers who "did their bit" one way or another in the second. The bright, future-hungry siblings all born post-war, and the serried ranks of uncles and aunts and their assorted jumble of offspring. Oh, yes, Grace recognises her own experience in Valerie's sharp, funny anecdotes and observations.

"I mean," the woman in question grumbles, "we're _post_ -graduates, for God's sake – aren't we entitled to a bit of peace and quiet? A bit of respect? Grace!"

"Sorry, sorry," she says again as they approach the small, rather dilapidated terraced house that's been their home for over two years now. "Look, if you want to try complaining to the landlord again, I'll back you up, but really – "

"Shit," Val interrupts loudly, causing Grace to flinch. She's hardly a prude, but she's still not altogether immune to a twinge of shock at the loud and flagrant use of such coarse language by such an intelligent – and delicate-looking – young woman. Maybe that's one area where their antecedents are very different.

Baffled by the sudden outburst, and seeing no reason for it, she demands, "What?"

"Trouble," an irritable Val says, nodding towards the far side of the road. "Trouble with a capital T."

All Grace can see, positioned between a dented and rusty Rover that was probably new just before she was born, and a slightly newer and not quite as dented Vauxhall with one mismatched wing, is a scruffy, long-legged young man in his very late teens or very early twenties lounging astride a parked motorcycle. One that might, or might not, be a Triumph Tiger just like the one her cousin Fred bought in Liverpool after a few too many drinks and then tried – and failed – to sell at a profit in Manchester a few weeks later. To Grace there's nothing particularly striking about either the motorcycle or the youth sitting on it, but a scowling Val is staring fixedly at both, prompting her to inquire, "You know him?"

"Oh, yes," Val confirms with a brisk nod, "I know him. That, Grace, is Pete, my lazy, good-for-nothing kid brother, and if he's here it's a safe bet that he's had yet _another_ set-to with dad and needs a bed for the night."

-oOo-

He looks a bit like Marc Bolan, Grace thinks, her quiet study of him passing unnoticed in the melee of angry gestures and raised voices. Or maybe that's just her over-active imagination playing tricks on her. Tall and slim, he has an untidy mane of near shoulder-length dark hair, and the kind of prominent, aquiline nose that lends a sharp, hawkish look to otherwise even features. Good-looking in an unkempt, unshaven, almost hippyish sort of way, but sulky, she decides, noting the sullen pout, the dark, drawn-down eyebrows, and the wilfulness too evident in his belligerent stance. She's heard a thing or two about him over the course of her friendship with Val, some of it alarming, some of it amusing, but most of it despairing and long-suffering. Every bit as bright as his older sister, their parents wanted him to go to Edinburgh to study law, she remembers, but he confounded them by taking a low-paid job on the docks instead – which he duly abandoned less than two months later. The latest black sheep in a family renowned for them, by all accounts.

On the other side of the road, some sort of grudging truce seems to have been declared. At least, that's what Grace infers from the way Val impatiently shakes her head, turns and walks back towards her, her wayward brother – taller by a good six inches – ambling in her wake, all the temper and tension suddenly gone from his manner. As she approaches, Val announces, "I've said he can spend a couple of nights on our sofa while things calm down at home – you don't mind, do you?"

Irked by her friend's brusque tone and high-handed attitude, Grace wonders whether it would matter if she minded or not, but since the matter seems to have already been decided and she can't think of any reasonable objection, she finds herself replying, "No, it's fine by me. You'd better ask the others, though."

" _Screw_ the others," Val pronounces with unexpected vehemence. "When they start asking us whether they can play loud music all night bloody long, I might bother to – "

"Hello," the young man says, interrupting the new outburst as he draws to a halt at his sister's shoulder. He has the same deep, dark eyes as Val, and his smile, Grace notices, is rather more angelic and engaging than expected. He holds out a hand to her. "Peter Boyd."

It's automatic to shake the proffered hand, to look up at him and respond, "Grace Foley. Pleased to meet you."

"Really?" he says, not letting go for a moment or two. Something about the dry way he says it tells her that no sort of reply is expected. Releasing his grip, he looks at his sister. "You got a phone I can use?"

"We're students, Pete – what do _you_ think?"

"I need to call Jimmy the Turk before he sets his dogs on me."

"Tough luck," his sister tells him. "There's a phone box at the end of Prince's Street, near the Post Office."

"Well, why didn't _I_ think of that?" he says, the sarcasm in his voice so heavy that Grace is forced to hide a smirk. "Jesus, Val, when I said I didn't have a bloody farthing to my name, I wasn't joking, you know."

"We've gone decimal, remember? Idiot."

"Piss off."

It's not the kind of exchange Grace can imagine ever having with her own brothers, Robert and Dennis. They bicker, of course, and always have, but as for swearing at each other… never. Their parents would never have stood for such a thing. She's not sure if she's amused or appalled by the way Valerie and _her_ brother seem quite happy to speak to each other in such a way. Probably somewhere between the two, truth be known. Hitching the narrow strap of her macramé bag a little further up onto her shoulder, she's about to excuse herself when Val says, "And don't even _think_ about asking Grace for money, either. She's just as skint as I am."

"Um…" she says, sensing confirmation is expected from her, but not at all sure what to say. The noncommittal noise is a mistake. Two pairs of intense chestnut eyes focus on her immediately, one gaze sharp and searching, the other amused and curious. Neither is easy to bear. She shakes her head. "It's true, I'm afraid."

"Jesus," her friend's brother says again, the casual blasphemy delivered in a tone of such disgust that she's almost embarrassed. She can clearly picture Father Donovan's angry scowl. "That's the problem with you perpetual student types – pockets completely empty and heads in the bloody clouds."

"Hark at the pot calling the kettle black," Val snipes back. "How was Morocco, by the way?"

"Hot," he says, reaching into the pocket of his well-worn reefer jacket and producing what Grace assumes is the ignition key for his motorcycle. "Not one of those vegetarians are you, Grace? Nuts and berries only?"

She frowns, not sure if he's mocking her. "What? No."

"Good," he says with an approving nod. "I'll be back later with my stuff. Don't lock me out."

He saunters away, his gait long and easy, and Grace catches herself watching him with just a little more interest than is seemly. Clearing her throat, she's about to speak when Val says, "Don't fall for it."

Startled, she frowns. "Hm? What?"

"The louche charm. Pete being Pete. Don't fall for it."

"I don't know what – "

"Yes, you do," Val says, her expression and her tone both reproving. "I know you, Grace – one glimpse of a good-looking young tearaway and you get all… unnecessary."

There's more truth to the allegation than she's willing to admit. Deciding that complete denial is pointless, she sniffs, "'Unnecessary'? That sounds like something my mother would say."

"Yeah? Well, she's a smart woman, then, isn't she?"

Ignoring the inference, Grace inquires, "Morocco …?"

"Oh, God," Val responds, looking briefly skywards as if searching for divine help. "Please trust me on this, you _don't_ want to start opening cans of worms. Not where my annoying, incorrigible baby brother is concerned."

"I really have _no_ idea what you mean," she says, trying to sound haughty and disinterested. From the derisive look her friend gives her in return, the attempt isn't altogether a successful one.

-oOo-

Grace deliberately chose the small attic bedroom when they first rented rooms in the house, gambling that it would be a much more peaceful place to study than her other option at the time, the far bigger front-facing bedroom that became Valerie's lair. In a house full of rowdy students, peace and quiet is a rare and precious commodity, especially nowadays. As if to prove the point, someone, maybe Larry, a burly young mathematics student who looks studious enough but is proving to be surprisingly rebellious, is currently playing the late, great Jimi Hendrix at the kind of earthshattering volume that's certain to provoke Val into another angry tantrum, but Grace, cloistered alone up in the eaves with her books and her faithful transistor radio, isn't particularly bothered by the noise. Finds it oddly… soothing, in fact. She won't later, not once she's ready to think about going to bed, but for now… Live and let live.

Glancing at the little travel clock standing on her overloaded desk, she's surprised to see that it's gone seven. It seems the last couple of hours have flown past as she diligently compiled several days' worth of notes. She's hungry, she realises, and in need of something rather more substantial than a snack or a meagre sandwich in the way of sustenance. Time to head downstairs and see what little food is left in the kitchen as the week begins to draw to a close. Communal assets are generally depleted faster than they can be replaced, but she's fairly sure there must be something left with which she can create a half-decent meal. Val's bedroom door is firmly closed, she notes, as she passes it on her way to the lower flight of stairs. Either she is studying, or she is sulking – either is possible.

Someone is already cooking, it seems, from the mouth-watering aroma that greets her as she reaches the narrow hall that bisects the ground floor of the property. _What_ is being cooked, she's not sure, but the smell of it is enough to make her stomach growl. Living on a small stipend, Grace has discovered, isn't much better than trying to make do on an undergraduate's grant, and though she's far from greedy – or covetous – she can't help the stab of envy she feels as she follows the tempting scent to its source at the rear of the house. What she finds in the kitchen is a surprise. It's not one of her fellow students standing at the old-fashioned stove frying what appears to be several pieces of steak – _steak!_ – but Val's younger brother, he of the tousled dark hair and roguish good looks.

"Hungry?" he inquires, glancing in her direction. It's a strange sort of greeting, but if half the things she's heard about him are true, he's quite a strange sort of young man. Unpredictable, restless, and headstrong.

Seeing no reason to lie, Grace nods. "Very. Where on _earth_ did you get hold of steak?"

"Been known to work a few days here and there at Smithfield."

It's an answer and it's not. Taking a seat at the small kitchen table, she says, "You can cook."

"Enough to get by," he agrees, looking over his shoulder at her. A quick grin precedes, "This is what I like to think of as _strategic_ cooking. Val's much less likely to turf me out onto the street if I make myself useful."

"And I thought you were just being altruistic," she teases. He gives her a look that makes her wonder if he knows what the word means. She hears herself add, "I mean – "

"I know what you mean," he tells her, and though his tone remains light, she senses a sudden hint of something steely behind the words. "I may not be a bloody post-graduate, but I _can_ understand words of more than two syllables, you know."

A flush of embarrassment heats Grace's cheeks. It's not a pleasant sensation. "Sorry."

"It's all right," he says, the easiness back in his manner. "God knows what my sister's told you about me. Whatever it is, most of it's probably not true. And if it is, it's certainly wildly exaggerated."

Thinking of her own brothers, she says, "Isn't that true of all siblings?"

"More than likely," he agrees. Again, he studies her over his shoulder for a moment. "Psychology?"

Hiding her surprise, Grace nods. "Yes."

"So you're going to be a shrink, are you?"

"A psychologist, at least."

"What's the difference?" His curiosity seems genuine.

It's a question she's become very used to answering over the last few years. "A psychiatrist is a medical doctor with a specialisation – "

" – and a psychologist is simply a specialist?"

He's quick, she thinks. Grasps an idea and immediately strips it down to its essentials. She nods. "That's basically it, yes. Both deal with disorders of the mind. Mental illness is still horribly stigmatised, if it's recognised at all. I'd like to be a part of helping to change that."

"Good for you." It's said in a reflective tone that piques her interest, but before she can question him, he continues, "She thinks I'm wasting my life. Val. They all do, in fact. The whole damned family."

Something, and Grace isn't quite sure what, makes her ask, "And are you?"

He looks straight at her. "No. There's a plan."

She believes him. She has no idea what his plan might be, but there's something about the look in his eyes that tells her he's not lying. Deciding not to ask, she offers instead, "So… you've been in Morocco, Pete?"

"' _Er_ '," he adds, his attention returning to the contents of the frying pan. "Pet _er_. I stopped being 'Pete' when I accidentally passed my eleven plus and my father packed me off to the very first boarding school he could find that was prepared to offer me a scholarship. It's _Peter_. Or just Boyd. Up to you."

Needled by his pedantry, she enunciates carefully, "So, you've been in Morocco, Just Boyd?"

He looks at her again, expression both thoughtful and entertained. "I have. For a couple of months. Got back a few weeks ago. You any good at peeling spuds, Gracie?"

He's playing games with her, she realises. Well, all right. Let him damn well try. Glowering back, she says, "Just _Grace_."

The way he smirks at her is so mischievous and so startling that it's a real struggle not to give in and grin back.

-oOo-

For some reason, she can't stop her gaze from continually straying to him as the three of them sit at the rickety kitchen table eating steak and chips. The meat isn't as tender as it could be, leading to darkly-expressed suspicions from Val that its origins might be rather more equine than bovine, but it's flavoursome and filling, and it didn't cost them anything. Three good reasons to enjoy it, as far as Grace is concerned. Boyd, as she's starting to think of him, eats with a ravenous gusto that reminds her a great deal of her late father, barely seeming to pause to chew despite the toughness of the meat. Several bottles of beer have appeared from somewhere, and she notices he tackles those with the same enthusiasm, ignoring the pint glass provided and choosing to swig straight from the bottle. Val makes disgusted noises and briefly disappears to fetch a half-empty bottle of Cinzano from her room. The offer to share is so grudging that Grace politely declines and makes do with the very end of a bottle of cheap white wine that has miraculously survived the attentions of their other housemates. It's not the worst thing she's drunk since becoming a student, admittedly, but after a few sips her teeth start to feel a little furry.

" _Anyway_ ," Val says, finally interrupting her brother as he continues to hold forth on the various delights of Casablanca. "Be that as it may, it's high time you sorted yourself out and did something about finding a proper job. No wonder you and dad had a blazing row if you haven't paid him a penny in rent since you got back."

"Who says I haven't?" Boyd challenges, prising the top off another bottle of beer.

"Well, I'm assuming – "

"See, that's always been a bad habit of yours, Val. _Assuming_ that you're in possession of all the facts."

Val sniffs in derision. "Better than some of _your_ bad habits. How is that busty peroxide blonde from Victoria Street, by the way? The married one who works in the _Rose and Crown_?"

Her brother's reply is nonchalant. "There you go again, _assuming_ that I'd know."

Val scowls. "God, you're still an infuriating little sod, aren't you?"

"'Little'?" he inquires, and though he doesn't bother to stand up, Grace takes his point. If he's not six foot tall, he's only a tiny fraction under, she's sure. It's probably a very bad sign that she's noticed.

"He was like this as a child," Val tells her. "Contrary. Always had to have the last word."

"I think you're mixing me up with Philip," Boyd says, unruffled by the accusation, "or possibly James."

"Disciples," Grace says aloud, not really meaning to. The bemused looks she receives in exchange make her explain, "Peter, Philip, and James."

"Good Catholic family," Boyd tells her. "Our maternal grandmother was a Galway girl."

Val snorts in derision. "When did _you_ last go anywhere near a church?"

"Mine, too," Grace says, surprised and intrigued. "Although my father was born in Cork."

With an easy half-smile he drawls, "Ah. Hence 'Foley', eh? Can't get much more Irish than that."

Val clears her throat. Loudly. "Getting back to the point…"

"There _is_ no point," her brother informs her. "The age of majority was dropped to eighteen two bloody years ago, and even if it hadn't been, I'm twenty-one, in case you'd forgotten. An _adult_."

"Then behave like one!" Val snaps at him. "You can't keep drifting from one casual job to another."

"Why can't I?"

"Because…" she starts but doesn't seem to know how to finish. "Just _because_."

"You know, sis," he says in a light, conversational tone, "that might carry a lot more weight if you hadn't spent the last heaven-knows how many years lounging about as a student. _Geology_ , for God's sake."

"What's wrong with – " Val starts, and breaks off as a sudden blare of loud music starts to thump through the house. The unmistakable sound of Jefferson Airplane being played at maximum volume. Val leaps to her feet, her expression thunderous. "That bloody Larry!"

Grace opens her mouth to comment, but Val's already out of the kitchen and heading for the stairs. Seated on the other side of the table, Boyd looks mildly perplexed. "What's that all about?"

"New housemates," Grace explains with a weary sigh. "They're nice enough, but Deb and Carl smoke a lot of grass and Larry likes to play his music _very_ loudly."

"So I can hear. Bet Val loves that, doesn't she?"

Grimacing, she says, "They've only been here since the beginning of term, and she's already on a mission to get them thrown out by the landlord."

"That's my sister for you. The living embodiment of the spirit of charity and tolerance." He grins at her for a moment. "I prefer the Stones, myself."

"Beatles," she reproves. "No contest."

"Northern bias?" he teases. "What's that accent of yours? Lancashire?"

"Leigh," Grace confirms, and adds the increasingly-familiar explanation, "West of Manchester."

Boyd grunts in response. "Went there once. Didn't like it."

"Leigh?" she inquires, prepared to mount a staunch defence of her home town.

Boyd shakes his head. "Manchester."

"Ah. Well that's because you're a Londoner, you see."

"You could have a point there." He leans back in his chair, studies her with quiet serenity. "So why come down south?"

It's another question Grace has been asked many, many times over the last few years. "Better course. More opportunities. More… freedom… I suppose."

"Family don't approve?" he guesses.

"Family," she says, reflecting on the matter, "don't understand. Not really. I was the first one to go to university. One of my cousins is at Leeds now, but he's reading engineering."

"Everything stacked against you, eh?"

"Used to feel like it sometimes," Grace admits. "I think that's why Val and I hit it off so well."

Rather to her surprise, his reply comes with a sympathetic nod. "Yeah, she had the devil's own job to persuade the old man to let her stay on at school, let alone try for a place at university. My brothers and I, though, we were pushed towards it. Sadly, I wasn't interested, Phil wasn't bright enough, and Jamie… well, Jamie had other things to worry about by then."

Grace has heard a story or two about James. "Little Clare?"

Boyd raises a languid eyebrow at her. "Indeed. We're not supposed to mention that she was born just six months after Jamie and Audrey got married."

Heavy footsteps herald the return of Val. To Grace, she looks unusually pale, almost shocked. She's certainly quieter than expected as she sits back down. It seems she's not the only one to notice. Boyd inquires, "You okay?"

"Yeah." Flat. Unconvincing.

Her brother snorts. "Try again."

Val shakes her head, expression tinged with disbelief. "I knocked on his door, asked him to turn the volume down, and he told me to… Well, I won't repeat what he told me to do."

"Did he, now." Boyd's voice is quiet. Deceptively so, Grace thinks. He stands up, and she notices how differently he's suddenly moving. The long-limbed lankiness has been replaced with something much smoother, much tauter and much more precisely controlled.

Val must see it, too. Her reaction is an immediate, "Oh, Pete, don't…"

"Stay there," he says. It's a direct order, no question about it. Grace is surprised when no further opposition is offered. Without another look at either of them, he walks from the room, shoulders set square beneath his dark tee-shirt.

Looking at Val, she asks, "What's he going to do?"

Val does not look happy. "If we're lucky, he's going to ask Larry to reconsider."

"And if we're not…?"

"He'll probably lay him out."

"Larry plays rugby," Grace reminds her, picturing their burly housemate.

Val looks incredulous. "Grace, all _three_ of my brothers used to box for Cloverhall Road Boys' Club when they were younger. Larry's from _Aylesbury_. I don't think he's ever even _heard_ of Bermondsey."

Realising that there may, indeed, be some reason for concern, Grace frowns. "Maybe we should – "

The pounding music shaking the house stops. Listening hard, Grace can't hear any hint of raised voices or a scuffle. She exchanges a dubious glance with Val, not sure if they should be worried or not. Moments later they hear the reassuring sound of solid, unhurried footsteps descending the stairs. It's Boyd, not Larry who appears at the kitchen door. He looks at them askance, as if trying to make sense of the way they are looking at him. "What?"

"Please tell me," Val says, "that you didn't hit him?"

"I didn't hit him," her brother replies dutifully, settling back at the table. The sceptical look on Val's face tells Grace that he might not be being entirely truthful. He shrugs. "Didn't need to. Turns out he's not quite so brave when it comes to confronting someone his own bloody size."

Grace decides not to point out that Larry probably outweighs him by at least a couple of stone, possibly more. She's starting to realise there's much more to Val's brother than mindless brawn, though. Shrewd but understated intelligence and a certain amount of raffish charm coupled with considerable self-confidence and something indefinable that suggests an inner core of steadfast tenacity and toughness. More than a hint of a suggestion that he's never learned how to back down in a fight, too. She can see it, and she suspects Larry did, as well. Attempting to lighten the mood in the kitchen, she says, "Peace and quiet at last."

"Just earning my keep," he says, nonchalant and easy-going again. Val shakes her head but says nothing.

-oOo-

He's easy to talk to. So easy, in fact, that Grace doesn't realise how much time has passed until Val starts making ostentatious comments about being tired. It doesn't occur to her at first that her friend seems more than reluctant to go upstairs leaving them alone together. When the thought does cross her mind, she wonders who Val thinks she's protecting – her or Boyd. It's an interesting point, one she ponders on as he tells them about his travels, features open and animated, dark eyes full of lively mischief. Laughing along with him, she's somewhat taken aback when Val suddenly says, "Aren't you supposed to be meeting Doctor Cartwright tomorrow morning, Grace?"

She hadn't forgotten, not really. It had just slipped to the edge of her consciousness. Glancing at her watch – a twenty-first birthday present from her grandparents – she frowns. "Is it really that late?"

Val rolls her eyes. "Yes. That's what I've been trying to tell you for the last _hour_. It's time we went up to bed."

"'We'?"

"Yes, Grace, _we_. Come along."

"Best listen to her," Boyd says, arranging himself more comfortably on the battered old sofa. "Before she gets _really_ bossy."

"Funny, little brother. Do _try_ to stay out of trouble overnight."

"I'll do my best," he promises, giving Grace a sly wink that has an unsettling effect on her composure. "Goodnight, ladies."

"Hm," Val says, as Grace gets to her feet.

The feeling that she's being shepherded from his company doesn't abate as Grace ascends the stairs, Val behind her. She's not sure if she's irritated enough by it to pass comment. Decides not to. They slow as they reach Val's door, but before Grace can say goodnight, her friend says, "Come in a minute, will you?"

Instinct tells her what's about to happen. She doesn't bother to protest, just follows Val into the large, untidy study-cum-bedroom and asks, "Well?"

Val waves towards the only chair in the room that isn't buried under clothes, books and papers, and as Grace sits down, she perches on the edge of her bed and says, "Pete."

Unsurprised, Grace gazes across the room. "What about him?"

It's not like Val to prevaricate, and she doesn't this time. "I was serious when I warned you about him earlier. Look, he's my brother, and I love him dearly – even if we do fight like cat and dog – but he's not the sort of guy you want to get mixed up with, Grace. Really, he's not."

"We were just talking, Val."

"It was the _way_ you were 'just talking'," Val tells her. "I know you, Grace. Have you forgotten what happened with Leslie?"

A brief, unwelcome stab of pain and regret informs her sharp, "Of course not!"

"First you started skipping lectures, and then – "

"Leslie," she interrupts, fighting a swell of real anger, "was a mistake. One that I learnt from."

"Good."

Forcing composure, she says, "I appreciate the concern, but you're being ridiculous, Val."

"Am I? Because from where I was sitting, it seemed rather like you were hanging on every bloody word he said."

"He's funny," Grace says, knowing she sounds defensive.

Expression sombre, Val nods. "Yeah, he is. And good-looking, and charming. When he wants to be. But he's unreliable, Grace. Blows hot and cold. You never know where you are with him. One day he's fine, the next he's so sullen you can barely get a word out of him. He never sticks with anything, or any _one_. Once he's amused himself, he gets bored and starts looking for the next pretty girl or the next big adventure."

Trying to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Grace says, "I don't disbelieve you, but it's irrelevant. I'm not interested in getting involved with someone, not at the moment."

"Make sure you remember that," Val tells her. She sighs. "Oh, look, I know it must sound like I'm interfering, but you're my friend, Grace. I care about you. I really don't want to see you get hurt. Not again."

Simultaneously gratified and exasperated, Grace shakes her head. "Well, I won't be, will I? Because _nothing_ is going to happen. He seems like a nice guy, that's all."

"He can be," Val agrees, "and underneath it all he's got a heart of gold. But… Oh, I don't know. He's got a wild streak. Always has had, even as a little boy. Dad used to say he was utterly fearless, but that's not quite it. It's more that he's… incredibly stubborn. Won't be told what to do, won't turn tail and run. Does exactly what he wants when he wants, and to hell with the consequences."

Not sure what she's supposed to say, Grace settles for a noncommittal, "I see."

Val narrows her eyes a fraction. "I'm trying to _discourage_ you."

"I know."

"So why do I think I'm actually _encouraging_ you…?"

-oOo-

 _cont..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Leslie. She wakes thinking about him, and lies in her narrow bed staring up at the sloped ceiling for several long minutes of bittersweet memories until she realises the travel clock moved to the small table next to her hasn't rung even though the light poking its way into the room through gaps in the floral-patterned curtains is far brighter than it should be for such an early hour in October. A quick check confirms her sudden sinking fear – the alarm hasn't produced its usual loud cacophony because she was too preoccupied to set it before settling between the sheets the previous night. Worse, eight o'clock has been and gone, and nine o'clock is well on its way.

Galvanised by the discovery, Grace sits up and throws back the bedcovers. The chill hits her immediately. The only way to heat the attic room is via an elderly free-standing convection heater that's unreliable at best. Still, the first thing she does after getting out of bed is to switch it on. Hopefully by the time she's had a quick bath and washed her hair in the downstairs bathroom it will have taken the worst edge off the chill. Hoping that her housemates are either still asleep, or have left for lectures, she collects together what she needs and heads down the narrow flight of stairs that leads to the main landing. Val's door is firmly closed, as is Larry's. Deb's door is ajar, the room beyond still and silent. Starting down the second flight of stairs, she listens for sounds of life anywhere in the house, but hears none. Reaching the hall, she finds that both the door to Carl's room and the door to the living room are closed. She can see that the kitchen is empty just by glancing to her left. Encouraged, she tries the bathroom door. It opens freely. Relieved, she locks herself into the small partially-tiled room and starts to run a bath.

Leslie. He returns to her thoughts as she catches sight of herself in the mirror above the cracked porcelain basin. A history student two years older than her, he'd seemed to be everything she thought she wanted. Studious but not dull, entertaining but not too extrovert. Interesting and interested. Or so she'd believed. A few chance meetings had led to a couple of casual dates, and then to something more. He'd talked freely about his contempt for such old-fashioned ideas as marriage, and she'd found herself agreeing with him, not because she shared his views, but because she was young and the world was changing so rapidly around them that everything new seemed an exciting adventure not to be missed. She hadn't tried to stop him the night he finally suggested that he stayed with her and they 'just did whatever came naturally'. The crippling Catholic guilt she'd felt afterwards hadn't been easy to live with, but she'd managed it. Somehow.

A change in the note of the water pouring into the bath brings her out of her reverie. It's all in the past now. For better or worse. She doesn't even know where he is. He graduated six months after they last saw each other, and she hasn't heard of or from him since. Maybe he's gone back to Bristol. Maybe he's even forgotten his principles and got married. It doesn't matter. Does it?

The bathwater's not much better than tepid. Certainly isn't warm enough for a long relaxing soak, and Grace doesn't have the time anyway. Doctor Cartwright is a busy man and not renowned for his patience. She's lucky he agreed to a meeting with her – more than lucky – and if she's late…

She wonders if he ever loved her. Leslie. Wonders if she was only ever a brief diversion, another notch on his bedpost.

Getting out of the bath, Grace dries herself with unnecessary vigour. Damn Leslie Burton to hell, and all the other men like him. She doesn't need _any_ of them.

Gathering her things together in preparation for the chilly dash back up to the attic, she unlocks the bathroom door, pauses for a last glance at herself in the mirror – pink and scrubbed – then opens the door and steps out into the hall. A second or two later, and she would certainly have collided with Val's half-dressed, sleepy-looking brother. They both freeze for a moment, she with a bundle of things tucked under one arm, he with his hand raised to push open the door she's holding onto.

He blinks at her. "Hello."

The voice sounds a touch deeper, a touch rougher, as if he hasn't been awake very long. His chest is bare and smooth, a broad plane above a discernible taper down to a slim waist and hips. Grace tries her best not to notice but fails. Dismally. Clearing her throat, she manages, "I was having a bath."

It's an inane thing to say. Deep dark eyes regard her with perplexed, quizzical amusement. "So I see."

Remembering that she's wrapped in a towel with another wound round her head like a turban, Grace scowls in discomfort. Why it matters that he's caught her looking so dishevelled, she doesn't want to consider. Staring straight at him and refusing to let her gaze drop back down to the entrancing amount of smooth skin on display, she pronounces, "You need a shave."

One long-fingered hand reaches up to rub idly at several days' worth of bristly dark stubble in a reflective, unbothered sort of way. "Why? It's not Sunday."

Leslie was always immaculately shaved. Always immaculately dressed, too, as if the scruffy counter-culture so prevalent amongst their fellow students was a long, long way beneath him. A free-thinking, politically savage rebel who looked more like a bank clerk than a revolutionary. She never saw him naked, not once. They undressed in the dark. Every single time. He was always gone before she woke up.

"You okay?" Boyd asks. He's not Leslie. She hasn't got a clue who – or what – he is. Not really.

"I'm late," she explains. Hears a quiver of panic in her voice and despises herself for it. "I overslept. Forgot to set the damn alarm clock."

"Probably my fault," he says in what she presumes is a fair attempt at chivalry. "I shouldn't have kept you up talking so late."

"My _own_ fault," Grace corrects, still nursing a grudge against the entire male gender. Deciding she's being unfair, she adds with less bile, "Anyway, I'd better get a move on. Somehow I've got to get to Highgate by ten."

He leans himself up against the wall, a study in easy nonchalance. "Ah. The guy Val mentioned last night?"

She nods. "Doctor Cartwright, yes. Research."

"I'll give you a lift."

Startled, she frowns at him. "You will?"

"Yeah," Boyd agrees. Maybe she looks confused, because he raises his eyebrows and adds, "You know, on the Triumph?"

His motorcycle. Of course. The thought is vaguely terrifying. "Um… Well, that's very kind of you, but…" Inspiration strikes. "I don't have a helmet."

He shrugs, the movement causing a noticeable flex of muscle in his bare shoulders. "You don't need one. I only crash on Mondays."

It's her turn to blink. "What?"

"Doesn't matter." Boyd tilts his head a fraction to one side. "Go on, live a little. I dare you."

It's a red rag to a bull, and Grace has a suspicion he damn well knows it. Raising her chin she asks, "Can you get me there by ten?"

"'Course I can. Trust me."

 _Never,_ she thinks. _Not in a million years. Except…_

She nods. "All right."

Boyd looks vaguely pleased. "Go on, then. Get a move on. You've got ten minutes."

" _Ten minutes_?"

He grins at her. "Think of it as a challenge."

-oOo-

Clinging to Boyd's waist as they swoop through the morning traffic, Grace finds that she's alternately petrified and exhilarated. Petrified when she thinks about how vulnerable she is amongst the cars and buses and taxis, exhilarated as he opens the Triumph's throttle on the longer stretches, overtaking stationary traffic and darting through gaps so impossibly small that she briefly closes her eyes and prays to whatever god or gods might be listening for safe delivery to her destination. It _is_ thrilling, though, to be _that_ girl. The one in dressed fashionable clothes who's riding pillion behind a good-looking young man, not the anonymous university student watching with quiet envy from the bus stop.

He's as good as his word, bringing the bike to a smooth halt outside the converted residential building that now houses the small but pioneering Cartwright Clinic at seven minutes to ten. Finding that her legs are rubbery and trembling, Grace's dismount is clumsier than she would like, but she silently congratulates herself on being able to stand upright on the pavement, her bag of notes and papers clutched tightly to her chest. Removing the bright-coloured scarf that was supposed to keep her hair in order, she inquires, "How do I look?"

Goggles removed, Boyd offers a telling smirk. "Windswept."

Angling to get a glimpse of herself in the Triumph's mirrors, she mutters, "Thanks."

"It suits you," he says. She doubts he could sound any more casual.

It's not as bad as it could be, Grace decides, staring at her reflection and trying to pat stray locks of mousey brown hair back into some kind of order. Not for the first time in her life, she finds herself resenting the quirk of genetics that deprived her of the fair hair enjoyed by her brothers. She _should_ be blonde, no question. Maybe Peter Boyd wouldn't sound quite so nonchalant if she was.

"How long are you going to be?" he asks, oblivious to her thoughts.

"An hour at most," she tells him, straightening up and brushing down her jacket, "why?"

"Need a lift home, don't you?"

She doesn't. Not at all. There are a lot of things she doesn't like about London, but she's never failed to admit that its public transport network is extensive and efficient. Generally. She should thank him and send him on his way. Of course she should. What she hears herself say is, "Well, if you don't mind…?"

"I don't mind," he says. "If I'm not here when you come out, wait. I won't be far away."

"Thanks, Just Boyd."

"You're never going to let me forget that, are you?" he says, with a heavy sigh that's clearly feigned. He nods towards the door. "Go on, get going. Make sure he knows what a brilliant student you are."

Grace eyes him with deep suspicion but can see no sign of mockery. Giving him a quick, grateful smile, she turns and heads towards the steps up to the building's solid wooden front door. She's ringing the bell as the Triumph's engine roars into life again behind her.

-oOo-

Although not as fierce and intimidating as Grace expects, Henry Cartwright makes it quite clear from their first handshake that he's a busy man doing her a huge favour by sparing her an hour of his valuable time. She manages to ask all her carefully pre-prepared questions, though, glad that her mother made her learn shorthand as she scribbles down his replies. There's little time left for further conversation, but by the time she's ushered from his office she's full of excited inspiration and the dawning swell of new, radical ideas. Such guarded interest that he _did_ express in the direction and scope of her research seemed genuine enough, and as she leaves the building she's more convinced than ever that she can perhaps one day expand some of her burgeoning theories about cognitive behavioural development beyond her thesis and into several ground-breaking academic papers. Hell, maybe she'll eventually become the next Henry Cartwright herself. Stranger things have happened. Haven't they?

He's waiting for her. Boyd. Lounging against the railings on the other side of the road, a lit cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth. She didn't know he smoked. Then, why would she?

"All right?" he inquires, as she walks towards him. "Go well, did it?"

"It did," she confirms. "Really well, actually."

"Hungry?"

"Eh?"

"You didn't have any breakfast," he says, throwing the cigarette down and reaching inside his jacket to produce a small, crumpled brown paper bag. "I bought you a sandwich. Figured cheese was a safe bet."

The very idea of eating on the street! Her mother would be horrified, Grace knows. She is hungry, though. Hadn't realised it before. "Can we go somewhere else? Is there a park, or something?"

Boyd studies her for a moment as if trying to decide if she's being deliberately awkward, but then tucks the bag away again and straddles his motorcycle. A strong kick and the engine starts to rumble. "Hop on."

Taking a moment to put her scarf back on, Grace does as she's told. It feels completely natural to slip her arms around his waist again. Close to his ear, she asks, "Where are we going?"

"Wait and see," he says. The bike jolts a fraction as he puts it into gear, and then they're off, accelerating rapidly down the quiet, empty street. This time, she knows what to expect, holds on tight as he banks into the first corner they reach, but lets her body follow his instead of vainly fighting against the frightening pull of gravity. It's easy, she realises. Keep holding on but relax and trust him.

Leslie didn't even have a bicycle.

She doesn't want to think about Leslie.

The journey is quicker than Grace expects, and though the street they stop in is unfamiliar, she knows enough about London and its geography to hazard, "Highgate Cemetery?"

Waiting for her to alight before getting off the motorcycle himself, Boyd nods. "Yeah."

"Romantic," she comments, darkly sardonic, then mentally kicks herself. It's a ridiculous thing to say. Hurriedly, without meeting his eye, she adds, "Isn't this where Karl Marx is buried?"

"East Cemetery," he confirms. "There are two, east and – "

"West?" she guesses with a smirk.

"How did you know?" Boyd inquires, deadpan. "C'mon, this way."

She follows him through the iron gates into the West Cemetery not really knowing what to expect. What she discovers is a sombre wonderland of overgrown trees and shrubs and neglected Victorian splendour. All types of graves and grave-markers, some almost devoured by the encroaching undergrowth, some still rising almost unfettered from the ground in all their neo-Gothic glory. It's haunting, certainly, but not at all macabre. Captivated by the quiet, grim beauty around her, she's not afraid to say, "Gosh."

"Astonishing, isn't it?" Boyd says, leading her along an overgrown path towards a rusting iron bench. "Rossetti's buried here somewhere."

"Which one?"

"Most of them, I think." He waves her to the bench as he declaims, "' _Remember me when I am gone away_ '."

Impressed, Grace skips ahead to, "' _Better by far you should forget and smile_ '. Christina?"

"Yeah." He produces the crumpled paper bag again, hands it to her as he says, "I loved all that gloomy stuff when I was at school."

It's difficult to imagine. He doesn't seem the type. "Really? I'd have thought the War Poets were more your style, if anything. You know, Owen and Sassoon and the others."

Settling next to her and stretching out his long legs, Boyd asks, "Why?"

Caught by the question, she demurs with, "I don't know."

"Yes, you do," he contradicts, "and you're wrong."

Far more fascinated than irked, she unpacks her flattened cheese sandwich and inquires, "Am I?"

"About me? Yes. About everything else? Who knows?" He looks up at the clear autumn sky. "He's got a degree in criminology, too, hasn't he? As well as all the psychology stuff. Cartwright?"

Startled, Grace chews as she nods, then mumbles, "How on earth did you know that?"

A careless shrug. "Went to the library while you were in with him. Val says you're interested in working with prisoners."

Again, she nods. "Offenders, yes. Amongst other things. There's a thing called criminal profiling that I think I'd like to get involved with. The Americans pioneered it during and after the war. Basically, it – "

"I know what it is," he interrupts, unbuttoning the heavy wool reefer jacket. The tee-shirt beneath is tight and hooped in broad blue and grey stripes.

Sceptical but prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, Grace frowns. "You do?"

Boyd shifts position, turning his body a little more towards her. He sounds earnest as she says, "Remember I told you there was a plan?"

"Yes."

"Well, there is. I'm going to join the police force."

It's the very last thing Grace expected him to say. "What? Really?"

"Really," Boyd confirms. "The Met. I'm applying to Hendon after Christmas."

"Wow," she says, shaking her head. "Well, I didn't see that one coming."

His answering grin is complacent. "I said you were wrong about me, didn't I?"

"You want to be a _policeman_ …?" It's a struggle to even begin to imagine it. She can't picture him in uniform, let alone following orders. Too impatient, too free-spirited. By _far_.

"Yeah," he says, starting to sound affronted. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing," Grace assures him hastily. "Nothing at all. It's just… not what I would have expected."

Boyd snorts, folds his arms across his chest. "Not _all_ of us Bermondsey boys are thieves and gangsters, you know. Though my Uncle John did have a bit of a run-in with the Richardsons once."

Recalling some of the colourful stories Val's told her about the family, she doesn't disbelieve him. Throwing a few breadcrumbs to a beady-eyed pigeon that's landed nearby, she asks, "What sort of policeman?"

"Eh?"

"Well, do you want to be a dog-handler, or a traffic policeman, or – "

"Oh, I see." A brief pause. "Detective. I reckon I could make CID within four or five years."

Trying to keep a straight face, Grace asks, "Read a lot of detective stories as a boy, did you?"

If Boyd senses her amusement, he ignores it. "Hardly any. Asimov was more my thing."

Interest piqued, she nods with enthusiasm. "Mine, too."

He gives her a sideways look. "Yeah?"

The sceptical note in his voice stings a little. "What, girls can't like science fiction?"

He's quick to placate her. "No, not at all. Just… you don't seem the type."

"Maybe you're wrong about me, too."

"Maybe I am," he concedes, stretching one arm out along the back of the bench as he assumes a more comfortable position. "So set me straight. Tell me all about Grace Foley."

Finishing her sandwich, she brushes further crumbs from her lap, watching as the opportunist pigeon sidles towards her. "Not much to tell."

"Wrong answer," Boyd says. His gaze is steady and intent. "They say only about four percent of school leavers go to university, and males outnumber females by… well, by whatever margin. Yet here you are, a working-class girl from Lancashire working for her doctorate."

"You could say the same sort of thing about your sister," Grace points out, trying to decide what's motivating his sudden interest.

"I could. Minus the Lancashire. We take being Londoners _very_ seriously in our family." He grins, more to himself than to her. Then he continues, "Val's… gifted. I hate to say it, but she is. Top of the class in everything from the day she first started school. At eleven she walked straight into a scholarship to a very good grammar school who saw her potential and pushed her hard in the right direction despite dad's objections. She's got guts, too, my sister. Guts and fire. She's the family success story. Sound familiar?"

Thinking of some of the obstacles deliberately or accidentally put in her way, Grace nods. "It does."

"So you're bright, and you're tough, and you're pretty. Winning combination."

 _Pretty_? He thinks she's pretty? Regarding him with considerable caution, she says, "'Pretty'?"

"Blue eyes," he says. "I'm a sucker for blue eyes."

Uncomfortable under his scrutiny, she tries to make a joke of it. "Are you flirting with me, Peter Boyd?"

"Maybe just a little. Do you like it?"

There's something about his easy impertinence that's incredibly engaging. Pretending to think about it, she says, "Perhaps."

He grins and puts his hands behind his head. "That's better than 'no', I suppose."

"But you're _far_ too young for me," she declares, deciding to remain with humour. It seems the wisest – and safest – thing to do.

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, 'cos you're a decrepit old lady of, what, twenty-four?"

"I'll be twenty-five in a couple of months," she informs him with deliberate solemnity.

"Oh, well," he says, holding her gaze with a bright, mischievous glint in his eye, "that's _definitely_ that, then. You're right. You're _much_ too old for me."

He's far too good-looking. Unsettled, Grace glances away, seeking inspiration elsewhere. "Shall we go for a walk?"

"Sure." Boyd stands up, waits for her to do the same. "Have you ever heard of the Highgate Vampire?"

"The Highgate what?" she asks, certain she's misheard him.

"Vampire," he repeats. "There was an actual vampire hunt right here in the cemetery, a couple of years back. You must have read about it in the papers, surely?"

"No." Narrowing her eyes, she says, "Oh, come _on_ , do I look as if I was born yesterday?"

"I think we just established that you weren't, didn't we?" he replies, and before she can comment, continues, "I'm serious. There were a couple of alleged paranormal sightings, and then the whole thing exploded from there. The police were trying to hold the crowd back at one point. Few months later, a woman's burned and decapitated body was found here. Evidence of black magic rituals, the papers said."

Incredulous though she still is, Grace can't help casting a quick, wary glance around her. Nothing's changed. The overgrown cemetery with its fallen trees, decaying, neglected memorials and tangled foliage is still just as quiet and tranquil as it was when they arrived. She makes a disparaging noise. "Evidence of severe psychological problems, more like."

"See, I _knew_ it would interest you," Boyd crows, starting to walk away along the path.

Following him, she says, "You really _are_ serious?"

He slows to allow her fall into step with him. "Uh huh. Look it up sometime. The Highgate Vampire."

"Mass hysteria," she says with a derisive sniff. "A relatively common psychological phenomenon."

"Give me your hand and close your eyes," he tells her, as they approach a junction in the path.

Grace gives him a reproving look. "Aren't you a bit old for schoolboy pranks?"

"I want to show you something," he insists. "Look, just trust me."

"That's the second time this morning you've said that, Boyd."

"And has anything terrible befallen you?"

"No," she admits, "not yet."

He grabs hold of her hand, his grip both surprisingly strong and surprisingly gentle. "Go on, close your eyes."

Certain that she's going to regret it, Grace does so. "I warn you – "

"Walk with me," he interrupts. "That's it. Keep going. You're perfectly safe."

She must be mad. He _certainly_ is. Maybe they both are. Holding tight onto his hand, she lets him lead her forwards.

"Stop," Boyd instructs a few moments later, halting with her. "Now, open your eyes."

She does, blinking in the late-morning light. She's greeted by what seems to be a ring of towering ornate stone vaults enclosing a central circle of further vaults. It feels a little like being in a round artificial canyon of carved stone. A small, derelict necropolis that stands in eerie silence as it waits to crumble away completely.

"They call it the Circle of Lebanon," Boyd tells her, not releasing her hand.

"Astonishing," she says, echoing his earlier description. There's no other word to describe it.

He kisses her then, tentative at first, but with growing confidence as she makes no move to reject him. It takes her a moment or two to make clear sense of what's happening, but once she manages it her enthusiasm quickly catches up with his. It's not a chaste thing, either, that deep, exploratory kiss, and it's a long, long time before they draw away from each other. He looks down at her in expectant silence, a hundred different things readable in his dark eyes. Heart pounding in her chest, Grace clears her throat and whispers, "I think… maybe you should try doing that again."

Boyd grins for a second, and then he obliges.

-oOo-

"Go on," he instructs, nodding towards the house, "go and do whatever it is you're supposed to be doing. I'll be back later."

Grace almost pouts but composes herself just in time. Instead, she keeps her tone cool and casual as she asks, "Where are you going?"

"Woolwich, to see a man about a dog."

She'd hoped for more of an explanation, but she's damned if she's going to let her deliberate mask of careful indifference slip by asking further questions. Instead, she says, "That's exactly the sort of thing my father used to tell my mother every time he was sloping off to the pub for a quick pint."

Astride the Triumph, Boyd sounds rueful as he retorts, "If I could afford to go to the pub, Grace, I wouldn't be going all the way to bloody Woolwich, believe me."

"Hm." She studies him for a long moment, trying to read his thoughts. It's an impossible task. "Why do I think I really shouldn't inquire any further?"

"Because you're very smart," he tells her with a quick, engaging grin, "which we've already established beyond any reasonable doubt. Don't worry, I'll be back. I'm the proverbial bad penny."

She snorts. "That, I'm starting to believe."

"Go on," he says again, starting the motorcycle with a hefty kick. The engine starts to growl, pistons thudding. "Go and do some work. Bloody _students_."

Impetuous for a moment, Grace leans forward and presses her lips briefly to his. He doesn't seem to object, not at all. It's nothing like the deep, fiery kisses they shared in the cemetery, but somehow it feels doubly daring. She imagines, rightly or wrongly, that net curtains are twitching up and down the street. Straightening up, she says, "You're a bad, bad boy, Peter Boyd."

"If only that were true," he says, putting the motorcycle into gear. "See you later, Gracie-Grace."

"Don't call me that!" she snaps, but it's too late – he's roaring away towards the junction with the main road.

She's barely stepped into the hall and closed the front door behind her when Val pounces. One look at her friend's grim expression tells Grace everything she needs to know. She holds her hands up in immediate surrender. "Oh, I know, I know."

"Have you gone _completely_ mad?" Val demands, her palpable outrage audible in her tone. "How many more times do I have to say it – my useless waste-of-space kid brother is bad news."

Shrugging, she offers a mild, "I like him."

"Of _course_ you bloody like him! It was a foregone bloody conclusion that you would like him!"

Refusing to get riled, Grace says, "You were looking out of the window, weren't you?"

"Only because that damn bike of his makes so much noise," is the defensive reply. "I didn't expect to look out and see you snogging him."

"I wasn't _snogging_ him," Grace objects, deciding not to mention earlier events, "I was just kissing him goodbye."

Rolling her eyes, Val looks up at the cracked and peeling ceiling for a moment. "Oh, for… Look, Grace, he's not a nice, respectable, _harmless_ undergraduate that you could safely take home to mum and dad for Sunday tea, he's a – "

"Val," she interrupts, torn between irritation and amusement, "I'm not some naïve teenager who's just arrived in the big city for the very first time."

Val glares at her. "I _know_ that, but Pete… Pete's a damn will-o'-the-wisp. Here today, gone tomorrow. He's _always_ in some kind of trouble, or up to some sort of mischief. He'll break your heart, Grace, just like Leslie did."

With complete honesty, she says, "He's nothing like Leslie."

"I didn't say he _was_ – only that the same thing will happen if you make the mistake of getting involved with him. Christ, he was only fifteen the first time dad opened the front door to an incandescent father set on wringing his damned neck."

Not a revelation that in any way startles her, Grace muses. Easing past Val, she slips through the open living room door and settles in the worn, old-fashioned armchair that's her personal favourite. Lumpy as it is, it's comfortable and comforting. It smells a bit like damp dog, a smell she associates with childhood and her uncle's elderly greyhound, Stanley. As Val follows her in, she asks, "Who's Jimmy? The chap he mentioned yesterday?"

Val frowns as she perches on the edge of the mis-matched armchair opposite. "Jimmy the Turk?"

"Yes."

A very definite shake of the head. "Not someone you ever want to meet, Grace. Amongst other things, he lends money to the kind of people who don't trust banks. He was born here in London, but his family are originally from Ankara." A pause. "If Pete owes Jimmy money – which he probably does – you don't want to know the details, believe me."

"He doesn't live in Woolwich, by any chance, does he?"

"No idea where he lives," Val says, "but I think he owns a scrap metal yard out that way somewhere, yeah. Grace, have you been _smoking_?"

"Maybe," Grace admits. She frowns. "Hang on, when did you become my mother?"

Val scowls back. "I thought you were broke?"

"I am."

"Pete." It's a statement and an accusation combined.

"Maybe," she says again. At the looks she receives, she adds, "Oh, come on, Val, when was the last time I had any fun?"

"Leslie."

It's her turn to scowl, and she does. "Will you _stop_ bringing Leslie into every damn conversation. I keep telling you, Leslie was a stupid mistake. I learned that the hard way, but it doesn't mean I have to spend the rest of my life running away from every other man who shows an interest, does it? I didn't take a vow of chastity the moment I found out that he'd been sleeping with that… that _woman_."

"His tutor, you mean?" Val supplies helpfully. "And talking of chastity – "

"No," Grace interrupts, before her friend can say another word. "Stop right there."

"But – "

"No," she repeats, glaring across the room. "I mean it, Val. Even if there was anything to talk about – which there _isn't_ – he's your brother."

"Exactly! I don't want to think about you and him… you know. It's far too disturbing."

"Well, luckily for you, there's no 'you know' to think about."

" _Yet_ ," is Val's portentous reply.

Hauling herself back to her feet, Grace announces, "I'm going upstairs to write up my notes from this morning's meeting with Doctor Cartwright. Which went very well indeed, thank you _so_ much for asking."

-oOo-

Statistics, she thinks, flicking through several long just-finished pages of transcribed and expanded notes. She needs to spend some time concentrating on compiling and then decoding all the statistics required to support her initial tentative theories. It's a tedious, soul-destroying task, one Grace is not looking forward to. Psychology and mathematics shouldn't have to co-exist in the same universe, she's certain. Maybe Larry would help, if she asked him nicely enough, and supplied him with enough beer. Then, she realises, Larry has been conspicuously quiet since the night before. No loud music thundering through the house, no heavy feet pounding up and down the stairs. She wonders what Boyd said to him.

Boyd. It's heading for mid-evening now, and there's still no sign of him.

 _He's not Leslie,_ she tells herself sternly. Leslie would sometimes disappear for days at a time, only to reappear with a condescending smile and half-a-dozen glib excuses. Which she always believed. Believed, or merely _chose_ to believe? Grace isn't sure anymore. In hindsight, all sorts of things are possible. Maybe she really was so smitten and so flattered by his attention that she was deliberately blind to all the things she should have seen.

Why _her_? It's a question she's asked herself time and time again over the last few years. Why on earth had Leslie chosen her, when there had been so many other pretty girls to choose from.

 _Innocence_.

It's not a nice thought, but she suspects it's the truth. Relatively new to London and nowhere near as sophisticated and worldly-wise as some of her contemporaries, she's beginning to understand just how much her younger self must have appealed to some dark, Svengali-like quirk in his character.

And all the time he'd –

Her head jerks up of its own accord as she hears the raucous sound of a motorcycle drawing closer. Leaving her desk and going to the dormer window set into the roof, Grace peers down into the semi-darkness below. A single oncoming headlight sweeps across the road, and she instantly chastises herself for the involuntary butterfly flutter in her stomach. Honestly, she's behaving like a silly young teenager, not a responsible adult in her mid-twenties, one with a stellar academic future ahead of her.

Damn him to hell. _And_ his interfering sister.

It's definitely Boyd. She can't make out his features in the gloom, but there's no mistaking the outline of the tall, lanky figure who gets off the bike, takes off his gloves and pauses for a moment to sweep his unruly mane of hair back into some semblance order with one hand. Her father, Grace thinks, would have had a thing or two to say about that profusion of tousled dark hair if he'd seen it. Short-back-and-sides, and no excuses, that was always his way. Despite having homes and families of their own now, both her brothers still dutifully comply with that inviolable rule as far as she knows. Then, wasn't she always the rebellious one, in her own quiet, determined way?

She still is. The far from unwelcome realisation makes her smile.

Returning to her desk, she takes her time filing her notes away in careful order. Pauses to tidy her desk, too, even though her instinct is to race down both flights of stairs to greet him. Don't appear too keen, that's what Val always says, as she strings along the panting coterie of keen young men who never seem to be too far away. Advice that Grace decides to take, waiting for a few more long, agonising minutes before she leaves her room. Casual, that's the best way to be. Let _him_ chase _her_. If he wants to.

She hopes he does.

Just a few steps down on the lower staircase, she's ideally positioned to overhear the conversation taking place in the kitchen below. The door's wide open as it usually is, and she stills as she hears Val say, "I really don't care, Pete. It's your own bloody fault – you rub people up the wrong way."

"Christ," Boyd's angry voice replies, "I always know where I stand with you, don't I? Right at the back of the sodding queue behind all the waifs and strays you manage to collect."

"Grace is _not_ a waif and stray."

"Yeah," he snaps, "I managed to work that one out for myself, thanks, and I wasn't talking about bloody _Grace_ , I was talking about _Ralph_. Does dad know you're still seeing him?"

Ralph Norman, Grace thinks with a frown. A slim, nervous Welshman who was one of Val's many admirers for a couple of years before apparently losing interest and disappearing. If Val's really still in contact with him, well, it's the first she's heard of it.

"Of course not," Val declaims, "and even if he did, it's none of his business. Or _yours_."

"Well, that's where you're wrong, isn't it?" Boyd's voice growls back. "It's very much my bloody business, given that it was _me_ who took the blame for stealing the money that went missing from the house that Christmas."

"Pete – "

"You owe me, Val," he interrupts. "If dad knew it was _Ralph_ who took that money… well, I don't need to spell it out for you, do I? You owe me, and yet suddenly I'm _persona non grata_."

"All right, all right," Val's tired-sounding voice responds, "you can stay. But keep _away_ from Grace."

"Why?" her brother demands. "It's not up to you to decide – "

No, it's not, Grace thinks angrily, not listening to the rest of the sentence as she starts back into motion. Making far more noise than is necessary on the stairs is a deliberate ploy, and as she reaches the hall with its clear view of the kitchen, brother and sister are sitting in silence at the table, both looking her way. She's struck once again by the strong familial resemblance between the two of them.

"What?" she inquires, deliberately and coldly ingenuous as she walks into the kitchen.

"Nothing," Val says, far too quickly. "We were just talking. You don't mind if Pete stays here another couple of nights, do you?"

Grace spares him a brief glance, doesn't fail to see the barely-veiled look of amusement on his face that he's not doing very much at all to hide. Returning her gaze to Val, she says, "I suppose I could just about bear it."

-oOo-

 _cont…_


	3. Chapter 3

_( **Note:** this chapter contains a small amount of moderate __adult content. Don't like, don't read.)_

* * *

 **Chapter 3**

"Shhh," she hushes him as they creep along the landing past Val's closed door. It's late now, and the house is quiet – much quieter than is usual on a Friday night – meaning that every tiny noise they make is seemingly magnified. It's ridiculous, really. They're both adults, after all, and this is the early 'seventies, for heaven's sake, not the early 'fifties. It's no-one else's damn business who she chooses to invite up to her room. Even so, and even if their stated intention is merely to continue talking, Grace is far from keen for her housemates to know that she's not heading up to her attic bedroom alone. Behind her, Boyd pads along in stealthy silence, his heavy work boots abandoned downstairs with his jacket and his over-sized army surplus duffel bag, and to her relief he refrains from making all the deliberate noise he earlier threatened. They head up the second flight of stairs with equal caution, but by the time they reach her bedroom door they're both struggling not to laugh aloud at the complete absurdity of the situation.

"Jesus," her guest says as she ushers him in and closes the door behind him, "you couldn't swing a cat in here."

"Cat-swinging wasn't high on my list of priorities when I took the room," Grace informs him, "peace and quiet was."

"There, and I thought you just wanted to pretend you were starving in a romantic garret in Montmartre, or something."

"That, too." She gestures towards the room's only comfortable chair. "Have a seat."

He's forced to duck his head to avoid the rafters as he moves towards it. Not a problem Grace has ever had. Flopping down with an exaggerated sigh, he says, "I've been warned to keep away from you, you know."

"I heard," she admits. "I was given a bit of a lecture about it last night, myself."

"Doesn't surprise me," he says, looking around the small room. There's a hint of bitterness in the way he adds, "I'm the blackest of black sheep, didn't you know?"

Settling on the edge of her bed, Grace asks, "Why don't you tell them what your plan is? Your family?"

The roaming dark gaze returns to her. "Two reasons, actually. One, they'd never believe me."

From what she knows of his family, he's almost certainly right, Grace thinks. "And two?"

"There would be… considerable opposition. Far better to present it to them as a _fait accompli_."

"Opposition?" she inquires, but she suspects she knows what his answer will be. It wouldn't be any different in her own family, she's certain.

Long fingers drum a nervous, near-silent tattoo on the arms of the chair. "Where I come from, joining the police force is generally seen as slightly less acceptable than knocking up the girl next door and then running off to sea."

"Times are changing," she tells him.

"Not if you were born just off the Mile End Road, they're not."

She understands what he means. Understands, and sympathises. "Yet you're seriously considering joining?"

"No," Boyd says, "I'm not 'considering' it at all. I'm _doing_ it. That's the thing about growing up surrounded by vermin, Grace – in the end you either give in and join 'em down in the gutter, or you make the tough decision to become a rat-catcher."

"Or you break away completely, like Val."

"For some there is that option, yes," he agrees. He surveys her in silence for a moment, then continues, "It's more than that, though. It's about people – good decent people – being able to live without fear, being able to go about their everyday lives in safety. I wasn't joking about my Uncle John. He used to own a pub near the Elephant and Castle. One evening the Richardsons came calling. I was just a teenager at the time, but I saw him change from a tough ex-artilleryman into a scared, prematurely old man who got more and more frightened until he more or less gave the damn place away."

Startled by the tale, Grace isn't sure how to react. She's heard plenty of sinister stories about the Krays and the Richardsons since moving to London, but still…She shakes her head. "That's terrible."

"Yes, it is. Now ask me why I'm going to be a copper."

Staring straight at him, she can see the implacable determination for herself. It's deep inside him, a steely core hidden beneath the raffish charm and the youthful, mischievous grin. Sobered by it, she says, "I don't need to, do I?"

"It's ironic," Boyd muses aloud, "everyone thinks I'm always up to no good, and maybe, yeah, I have been a bit wild from time-to-time, but one day I'll be the one they call when their damned house gets burgled, or their son gets beaten up on the way home from the pub. _I'll_ be the one standing between them and complete lawlessness."

His sincerity is obvious. "That's… quite a speech."

"Don't mock me, Grace," he warns, a discernible chill entering his voice.

She shakes her head again. "I'm not. Far from it. I don't always agree with what the police do – "

"That's bloody left-wing students for you."

" – but I understand the essential purpose they serve in a civilised society."

He grunts, as if sufficiently placated. "So, I'll be locking 'em up, and you'll be there waiting to rehabilitate them."

"That's not _quite_ what a prison psychologist is supposed to do, Boyd."

"Whatever." A dismissive shrug. He gazes at her in silence for a few seconds, then says, "Are you going to let me shag you, then, or…?"

Grace nearly chokes. Eventually finds her voice to say, "Well, that was blunt."

He seems unrepentant. "I don't have the money to wine and dine you, sorry."

"Or the inclination?" she challenges.

His expression remains inscrutable. "I didn't say _that_."

She can't work him out. Not at all. She starts to think she's getting past the surface, and then something in him changes and he's a completely different man. It's both exasperating and fascinating. Haughty and cool, she says, "That approach might work with some women, Boyd, but – "

"You're not 'some women'?" he guesses, straight-faced. "Yeah, I realised that within about ten seconds of meeting you."

Not sure if she should be flattered or not, Grace gives him a sideways look. "Oh? What am I, then?"

"Indecipherable," he says, confounding her yet again. His gaze remains steady. "Hard as nails, but as vulnerable as a kitten. Scarily bright, but full of self-doubt. Determined to succeed but terrified of what will happen when you do."

His perception is both astonishing and uncomfortable. Defensive, she says, "I'd love to know how on _earth_ you came to that conclusion."

A light shrug. "I can see it. You have moments when you think you know exactly how good you are, but then you start to question yourself. Sometimes you can picture yourself right at the very top of your field, as a respected, world-renowned expert, but then you hesitate and suddenly you're back where you were at the start: the frightened teenager with the Northern accent who arrived in London with two suitcases and no real idea of what she was doing."

"Valerie," she says. She wonders how much he knows.

Boyd shakes his head. "Observation."

Grace stares at him for a moment, then she says, "Shall I tell you something about you, _Pete_?"

His lip curls an almost imperceptible fraction in disdain, and then he mutters, "Go on."

Pinning him with a cool stare, she says, "That wildness you're accused of is simply defiance. All your life you've been compared to your older siblings, particularly to Val, and when you finally realised that whatever you did was never going to be enough to fulfil your parents' overly-high expectations, you started to rebel – because being a black sheep is better than being a disappointment. Deep down, underneath it all, there's actually a dyed-in-the-wool conformist struggling to get out."

He takes it better than she expects. One dark eyebrow merely rises a fraction. "You think so, do you?"

"I do," Grace confirms with growing confidence. "Bad boys don't become policemen."

"Some of them do," Boyd contradicts.

"Maybe, but you're not one of them."

He doesn't reply, just continues to watch her with steady, impassive concentration. She's about to add to her analysis when he says, "You still haven't answered my question."

Momentarily off-guard, Grace frowns. "What question?"

"Are you going to let me shag you?"

He's incorrigible. Or perhaps just breath-takingly rude, she's not sure which. "I haven't quite decided," she tells him, wondering what his reaction will be. If she's as good at reading people as everyone says she is, then his brazen impertinence is, at least in part, a deliberate attempt to shock. She's damned if she's going to let him think he's succeeded. "After all, I wouldn't want anyone to think I was cradle-snatching."

"Ouch," he says. "So, I'm three or four years younger than you, so bloody what? If you think you're in any danger of corrupting me, think again. That particular horse has well and truly bolted."

"I believe you."

"So? What's the problem?" Boyd frowns, something evidently occurring to him. "Wait, you're not a…?"

Trying not to think of Father Donovan and just how long it's been since she went to confession, Grace gives him a scornful look. "Of _course_ not."

"Oh, thank God." The note of relief in his voice is obvious. "Give me experience over innocence any day of the week."

 _Innocence_. That word again. It prickles both at her conscience and at her memories. Looking down at the threadbare rug under her feet, she says, "It's that easy for you, is it? To just jump into bed with someone you barely know?"

"Grace, I was _sixteen_ in the Summer of Love. I virtually lived in Carnaby Street and the King's Road."

Interesting. Still, she snipes, "Weren't you at boarding school?"

"It wasn't Borstal, for God's sake. Weekends, holidays…" He shakes his head. "Look, I didn't mean to offend you."

"You haven't."

"Good. Because I like you. I like you a _lot_."

"I like you, too," she grudgingly admits, "and I wasn't saying no."

"Just… not tonight?"

"I think," she says, choosing her words with considerable care, "that we may have spoiled the mood a bit, don't you?"

"I get it," Boyd tells her, standing up and ducking his head again to avoid the rafters. Maybe she looks sceptical, because he insists, "No, I do. It's fine."

"Peter…"

"No, it really is," he says, and to his credit he gives her a brief, sunny smile. "I'm a chancer, Grace. Always have been. Look, I'm working a few hours cash-in-hand at Gallions Reach tomorrow, so why don't I take you out for a drink in the evening? Must be a decent pub around here somewhere."

"There's the King's Head," Grace tells him, getting to her feet. "It's quite old-fashioned, but it's – "

"Sounds good," Boyd interrupts, stepping towards her. She's surprised when he takes her hands in his, expression solemn. "There's something about you, Grace Foley. Something that makes me want to find out more."

Not knowing how to respond, she stretches up on tip-toes and presses a light kiss to his lips. Pulling away almost as quickly, she says, "Don't make any noise going past Val's room."

"I won't," he promises her, stepping away again. "I've had more than enough lectures from her for one day."

-oOo-

She's an idiot. Tossing and turning in her narrow bed, Grace can't get the vexing thought out of her head. Yes, Boyd's brash impudence got further under her skin than she should ever have allowed, and yes, she's certainly not _that_ sort of woman, but… well, trying to tell herself that she's not attracted to him and has absolutely no interest in sleeping with him is self-delusional, at best. Quite possibly self-destructive, too. Why _shouldn't_ she sleep with him if she wants to? No-one – at least no-one of their generation – cares anymore. If they ever did. The liberal, experimental 'sixties took care of that. It's _her_ choice, surely? Nothing to do with anyone or any _thing_ else.

Sex before marriage is a mortal sin, isn't that what she was brought up to believe?

She banishes the thought quickly. _Religion is the opiate of the masses_ , that's what Leslie used to quote at her whenever she had the temerity to raise the matter of the faith she inherited from her parents. Nothing more than a way to control people, that's what he used to say. She's going to hell just for thinking it. If there is a hell.

The way Boyd looks at her, though. Thoughtful, amused, and yes, just a tiny bit predatory. He seems far older than his years. Much younger, too, in some ways. Intriguing in all his contradictions and complications. She wonders what else is buried beneath the surface, whether he's really as stubborn and hot-tempered as Val has always led her to believe. Instinct tells her that he is, that what little she's been allowed to see of the real young man behind the wall of cheeky self-assurance is heavily influenced by an innate obstinacy and ferocity that will doubtless continue to mark him out as a troublemaker for the rest of his life. She wonders how on earth he thinks he will cope with having to wear a uniform, having to follow orders.

She's deliberately trying to distract herself, and Grace knows it. It's not working. She's still restless, still annoyed with herself. _You'd willingly cut your nose off just to spite your own face, girl,_ that's what her late father had so often told her with a hopeless shake of his head. She hadn't really understood the words then, but it's difficult not to recognise their truth now, tonight, as she stares up into the darkness and despairs of ever getting to sleep.

Without thinking about it, she sits up, almost surprising herself. Maybe if she sat at her desk studying for a while, she'd forget all about Peter Boyd, at least temporarily?

Getting out of bed, Grace shivers in the October chill, quickly dons the light but warm quilted dressing-gown that was a Christmas present from her mother. It helps. She walks to the window, parts the curtains enough to look out at the night. A thin damp fog has settled over the street, blurring the lines of the squat terraced houses opposite. One or two lights are still blazing, their glow diffused somewhat by the fog, but there's a dull stillness and silence to the night that reminds her how late – or how early – the hour is.

It's not a conscious decision to turn and walk towards the door. Maybe it is. She knows what she's doing as she creeps down the upper flight of stairs, and she doesn't. There are loud, regular snores emanating from Larry's room as she passes it, but as far as she can see the entire house is in darkness. There's not a single sound from behind Val's closed door. Hesitating at the top of the second flight of stairs, Grace is far too aware of how fast her heart is suddenly beating. She half-turns to head back along the landing, then changes her mind. Hesitates again, then takes a single careful step down. Nothing terrible happens. She takes another step, and then another. Six stairs down, she treads lightly, avoiding the loose stair that always creaks so loudly. She's in the narrow hallway before she knows it. Carl's door is firmly closed, and he's snoring, too. Not as loudly as Larry.

The living room door squeaks softly as she eases it open, not helping to slow her pounding heart. As she slips into the small square room, she makes sure she closes it behind her.

The curtains in the scruffy communal room are old and frayed, and they don't quite meet in the middle, allowing a little outside light into the room. Everything within is still shadowy and monochrome. Not quite real. Perhaps it's better that way.

Boyd is asleep on the uncomfortable sofa, sprawled out under a couple of blankets, one bare arm hanging loose. He stirs as she perches next to him, muttering to himself, the words thick and unintelligible. Grace barely recognises her own voice as she whispers, "Peter…?"

He wakes bemused and blinking. His voice is sleep-rough as he mumbles, "Grace…? Wha's matter…?"

"Shhh," she murmurs back. "Keep quiet. Everyone's asleep."

Tousled and owlish, he asks, "What time is it?"

"I don't know. Gone two, I think."

Shifting position, he half sits up against the tatty cushions forming a makeshift pillow. His naked chest looks like sculpted marble in the low light levels. "What on _earth_ are you doing down here?"

She wishes she knew. Offers a confident pretence of, "Guess."

"Jesus," Boyd mutters, still sounding half-asleep, "you're full of bloody surprises, you, aren't you?"

Shedding her dressing-gown and slipping a hand beneath the blankets, she whispers back, "Believe it."

No more words needed, not from either of them. Hot, unambiguous kisses, quick hands that roam and search. Heat from two bodies tangling together in silent, desperate arousal. He's already hard when Grace forces a hand under the waistband of the shorts that are the only item of clothing he's wearing beneath the blankets. Hard, and oh-so-ready. She needs it. Has no doubt _he_ needs it, too. Boyd groans when she straddles him, his greedy hands agile and impatient as they move under her thin cotton nightdress. There's a lot of silent urgency and very little finesse, but that's okay, it works, here in the dark with the door unlocked and the illicit thrill of potential discovery pounding through their veins.

"Wait," he all-but chokes out as she prepares to bear down. "Is it safe? Are you… you know…?"

She is _definitely_ going to hell. Contraception is… well, according to everything she's ever been taught to believe it's another mortal sin. One she knowingly committed because Leslie said it was far too soon to think of marriage and children. Shaking her head, she says, "I _was_."

"Not now?"

"No," Grace admits, undulating against him. Her blood seems to have turned to liquid fire in her veins, and it's difficult to concentrate on anything but the impatient, edgy need that's burning her up from the inside out.

"Fuck," Boyd curses, making a half-hearted attempt to fend her off.

"It'll be fine," she tells him, not caring if it's true or not. The only thing that's important is _now_.

"Are you _crazy_?" he demands, twisting away to fumble on the floor beside the couch. "Hang on… Grace, _wait_."

She hears the metallic rattle of a belt buckle, assumes he's reaching for his discarded jeans. Some muttered cursing is accompanied by more scuffling and fumbling in the deep shadows, and then there's the tiny, tell-tale sound of a foil packet being torn open. Comprehension dawns. She's not sure if she's pleased by his foresight or offended by the implied presumption. Doesn't matter. Nothing matters except satisfying the reckless need that drove her down two flights of stairs against all sense of reason. Still, she's glad it's not her trying to take care of the distasteful fiddly details in the dark.

"Okay," he announces a few moments later, his voice low and hoarse. " _Grace_ …"

Ragged breathing that stutters as they join, the intensity of the moment jolting through her body as it forces a low, blissful groan from him. The sheer simple, primitive joy of it as they work together in fierce, rapid harmony, just one shared thought between them. It's quick and clumsy, and it's as close to desperate as Grace has ever known, but it's incredibly good, too, and she closes her eyes and lets her head fall back as she concentrates on the steadily-building pressure that starts to send tiny tremors through her limbs.

" _Fuck_ ," Boyd mutters again, his fingers digging hard into her hips.

"Not yet," she orders, not caring if the harsh edge to her tone startles him. " _Not yet_ , damn you."

"Jesus…" A strangled entreaty, a plea offered up into the shadows. But he doesn't break. Somehow, he doesn't break.

The tiniest shift of position is all it takes to make the difference. Almost there. Almost _there_. Muscles tightening, Grace isn't aware of how quick and heavy her breathing has become, or of how aggressively her nails rake across his chest as she fights her determined way towards the far too easily snatched-away prize ahead. Supine beneath her, Boyd swears far too loudly, tightens his punishing grip on her even more, but she isn't aware of that, either, as the all-encompassing rush of sensation catches up with her and starts to tear its way through nerves already howling with tension. Maybe she shouts, maybe she doesn't. She's too caught in the narrow focus of desperate release to know, is barely aware of the way he suddenly grunts and bucks hard under her, the way he stills so abruptly, the tendons in his neck standing out stark against his moonlight-pale skin.

Tranquillity. Still panting, Grace slumps forward onto him, head coming to rest high on his chest. She can hear the way his heart is racing, can feel the slick, hot sweat on his skin. He mumbles something she doesn't catch, throws a heavy, awkward arm across her back, and they lie together in silence, letting their breathing steady and then unconsciously synchronise. Not a single sound from anywhere in the house disturbs the sudden sense of peace.

Long moments pass. Eventually, his quiet voice speaks close to her ear. "You okay?"

She is. Disinclined to move too much, she settles for just whispering back, "Yeah."

"Spitfire," he murmurs.

Confused, Grace frowns against his chest. "Eh?"

"You," Boyd clarifies. "You're a little spitfire on the quiet, aren't you?"

Processing the rather pleasing notion, she asks, "Am I?"

"God, yes." A pause. "My mother always warned me to watch out for the quiet ones. Seems she was right."

Deciding it's meant as oblique flattery, Grace smiles to herself. Sleepy and languid, she stretches a fraction, easing the very last of the tension from her limbs. "Got any cigarettes left?"

"Nope," he tells her, one hand gently roaming over her back. "No cigarettes, no money to buy any cigarettes."

She's not surprised by the revelation. "Oh, well. They're bad for you, anyway."

"So they say." Another pause. "Why did you change your mind? About sh – "

"Don't say it," Grace warns. "It wasn't funny the first time. And… you wouldn't understand."

"Wouldn't I?"

"No," she confirms without ire, "because I barely understand it myself."

-oOo-

"Grace," a quiet but insistent voice says, drawing her unwillingly out of her dreams. "Grace, come on. It's gone six."

Six? In the _morning_? On a _Saturday_?

Befuddled and petulant, she mumbles an irritable complaint and tries to burrow further under the blankets. Blankets? What the…? Oh.

It's still dark in the living room, but in an autumn-morning sort of way. She's curled up on the sofa alone, Grace quickly discovers, and as she blinks the world into proper focus, she realises that Boyd – fully dressed – is crouched on the floor next to her. He's regarding her with what she can only describe as exasperated amusement, and as she stirs, he says, "God, you're bloody difficult to wake up in the mornings, aren't you?"

"Why are you dressed?" she demands. It's not the most romantic of greetings, but she's still struggling to shake off the drunken sleep stupor that still seems to have her firmly in its grasp.

"Working on the docks today, remember?" he reminds her. "I'm leaving in a few minutes. Didn't think you'd want Val catching you kipping down here."

Good point. Forcing herself to sit up, Grace rubs her eyes. "How can you possibly be so awake and full of energy after just three hours' sleep?"

Boyd shrugs. "Dunno. Why don't you go upstairs and go to bed for a few hours?"

"Good plan," she agrees, trying to stifle a yawn. "What time will you be back?"

"Not sure. Couple of things to do later. Six-ish? How about you get ready for, what, seven?"

"Ready…?"

"Pub?" he reminds her. "Drink? Remember?"

"Oh, yes. Yeah, okay." Grace nods. A muscle in her back twinges as she moves. Pulling a face, she says, "This has got to be the most uncomfortable sofa in the world."

"No sympathy," he tells her with a savage grin. "None at all. It's your own damn fault. Creeping downstairs in the middle of the night to – "

"Yes, yes," she hastily interrupts, "thank you _so_ much for reminding me."

"Good Catholic girls. They're always the bloody worst."

"Are you speaking from experience?"

"Might be." Another grin. "You're a very naughty girl, Gracie-Grace."

The deliberate use of the nickname grates. She glowers at him. "Do _not_ call me that, _Pete_. Ever again. Clear?"

Boyd does not look at all contrite as he says, "Quite clear."

"Good."

Standing up, he announces, "I'm going to work now."

" _Good_ ," Grace repeats. "I, on the other hand, am going upstairs to bed."

Reaching down to tug her gently to her feet, he says, "Not before you give me a kiss goodbye, you're not."

-oOo-

It's past lunchtime when Grace finally descends to the kitchen. The house is so quiet that she thinks she's alone until she finds Deb sitting at the kitchen table eating toast and making notes from the textbook propped up by a half-empty bottle of milk. Chemistry, Grace assumes, though she can't read the title. A skinny brunette with freckles and a West Country accent, Deb is young, quiet and inoffensive. True, she spends a lot of time with Carl smoking whatever the pair of them can lay their hands on, but she's polite – almost deferential – and friendly enough in a reserved sort of way. If Val succeeds in her mission to have their housemates evicted, Deb will be the only one Grace might in any way regret saying goodbye to.

"Hi," she announces, heading for the cooker and the kettle perched on the hob. "All on your own?"

"Yeah," Deb says, putting down her pen and flexing her writing fingers. "Carl's gone home for the weekend to see his sister, and I think Larry's gone to the rugby club."

"Val not in?"

"I don't actually know," Deb admits. "I haven't seen her. That brother of hers isn't here, either. His stuff's still all over the living room, though."

Feeling more than slightly duplicitous, Grace offers a neutral, "Oh?"

As a defence it seems to work, because an oblivious Deb forges on, "Yeah. I was talking to him a bit yesterday. Did you know he's been to Morocco?"

"I think Val may have mentioned it, yes."

"Dishy, isn't he?" Deb enthuses, more animated than Grace has ever seen her. "I wonder if he's got a girlfriend."

She can't help bristling. Immediately chastises herself for it. Filling the kettle at the sink, she says, "No idea."

"Do you think Valerie would know?"

The conversation seems to be heading in the kind of direction Grace isn't keen to take. Shrugging, she says, "You could try asking her."

"Well, I was sort of wondering…"

Oh, for God's sake… surely not?

"…if you could ask her for me."

Grace has no idea what to say. Settles for, "Um…"

"Please, Grace," Deb pushes. "Whenever I try to talk to Val I feel… Well, I don't think she likes me very much, put it that way. I'm new here, but you two have been friends for ages, haven't you?"

"For a while, yes," Grace admits. Lighting the gas, she sets the kettle to boil. Wonders how best to escape the awkward exchange. "You could just ask _him_ , you know."

The way Deb flushes a deep crimson tells Grace far more than she needs – or _wants_ – know. Blushing furiously, Deb says, "I'd just make a complete idiot of myself. I'm not good with boys."

Grace is on the verge of pointing out that at twenty-one Boyd no longer in any way qualifies as a _boy_ when a distant flash of memory stops her. Suddenly she can see her younger self in Deb. Remembers only too clearly what it was like to be young, lacking in confidence, and away from home for the very first time. Steeling herself to be kind, she says, "It's part of growing up. You get on all right with Carl, don't you?"

"Carl's different," Deb replies. Lowering her voice, she adds, "Carl… doesn't like girls. Not in _that_ way."

"Oh?" Surprised, Grace shakes her head. "Oh. I see. I didn't know."

"He's _queer_ ," Deb whispers, as if she imagines half of London might be eavesdropping. "But he's a really nice guy."

"The two things aren't mutually exclusive, you know."

"Eh?"

Resisting the urge to sigh, Grace says, "Never mind. Look, if you want to know, just _ask_ him. I don't think he bites."

Deb looks confused. "Carl?"

" _Peter_. Val's brother."

"Oh. Do you think… Do you think he'd be interested in me?"

She's so earnest, Grace thinks, and so, so young. No more than eighteen. Praying for the kettle to boil, she shrugs. "I have no idea. You'd be better off talking to Val about it, really."

"Maybe I will," Deb says, but she sounds dubious at best. "Thanks, Grace."

-oOo-

For Grace, the next few hours pass in a dull mix of boring but necessary chores and half-hearted study. The house remains quiet, with just the occasional noise from the floors below. Just after five, however, a light tap on her bedroom door disturbs her concentration. Bidding her visitor to enter, Grace looks up and is mildly disappointed to discover that though her visitor is a Boyd, it's Val not Peter. Smiling in greeting anyway, she pushes aside her books and inquires, "Where've you been all day?"

"Out with Stewart," her friend replies, and at her blank expression, adds, "Stewart Brookes? With the MG?"

Visually, Grace remembers the sporty little red car rather better than its driver, but she certainly knows him by reputation. One of Val's more… _intimate_ … admirers. "Ah. _That_ Stewart."

" _That_ Stewart," Val confirms with a quick grin that's eerily like her brother's. She settles in the chair occupied by him the night before. "A group of us are going to Camden later to see some arty black-and-white foreign language film that Tony's been raving about. Fancy it? I know how much you like that sort of weird, incomprehensible stuff."

She does, but for once Grace shakes her head. "I can't tonight, sorry."

Val looks surprised, then gives her a look that's filled with dark suspicion. "Oh? Other plans?"

"Something like that."

"Pete," Val says without hesitation. "I'm right, aren't I?"

There's no point in denying it, Grace decides. She nods, but feels the need to add, "It's just a drink, Val."

"Oh, for…" A deep intake of breath, slowly exhaled. "Okay. Fine. I've done my best to warn you about him. On your own head be it."

Not at all sure she's saying the right thing, Grace tries a gentle, "I think you're a bit too hard on him, you know."

Val stares straight at her. "Do you, now? And you feel qualified to say that, do you? Given that you've known him for, what, oh, at least a couple of days?"

Placation seems a far better idea than confrontation. "Val – "

"No, no," Val interrupts, getting into her stride, "I'm sure you're right, Grace – _you're_ the one who's going to be a psychologist, after all, not me. _You're_ the expert on what makes people tick. I just do rocks."

Stung, Grace frowns. "Oh, come _on_ …"

"Look, you want to play with fire, fine; go ahead and play with fire. But when you get burned…" Val shakes her head. Her voice is low and intense as she continues, "You might think you know him, but you _don't_. He's not the easy-going, amiable Jack-the-Lad he pretends to be. There's a dark side to him. A _really_ dark side. You just wait until he loses his temper over something _completely_ bloody ridiculous, or he puts his fist through a window because he's so angry at absolutely _nothing_ that he lashes out. Wait until you see him pick a fight with someone in a pub for no reason at all, Grace, and _then_ tell me what a nice guy is."

Shaken by the vehemence of her friend's tone, it takes Grace a moment to compose herself enough to say, "I can't judge what I haven't seen, Val."

Val's expression softens a touch, and her tone is a fraction less harsh as she says, "Oh, Grace… I'm not trying to spoil your fun. Really, I'm not. But Pete is… I don't know. He's always had two distinct sides to his character… a devil and an angel if you like. Trying to predict which one you'll get at any given moment is damn near impossible. But if you can cope with that…"

"It's just a drink," Grace repeats, "that's _all_."

"Mm," Val says, sounding unconvinced as she stands up. Moving towards the door, she says, "Your problem is that you find people too fascinating, you know that, don't you? Everyone intrigues you – their hopes, their dreams. Who they are, what _makes_ them who they are. Probably a great characteristic for a psychologist, but…"

"…not for a friend?"

"I didn't say that," Val tells her. "Just… be careful, Grace. Please. He's not Leslie. Leslie was a snake, but Pete… well, I don't know what Pete is. Not really."

"He's your brother, for a start," Grace points out.

"Yes, he is, and I'd defend him to my last breath if I had to. I do know one thing for sure, though – he's going to cause you a _lot_ of trouble if you let him."

-oOo-

 _cont…_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

It's just a drink. Part of her tries to believe it, but as she takes her time getting ready, Grace wrestles with the gut instinct that tells her it's far more than that. She doesn't dare to examine why going for a drink with him feels like an irrevocable step towards… something. Why it should feel so much more significant than… well, than what happened downstairs in the early hours of the morning. Gazing at her reflection in the small hand mirror currently balanced on her desk, she doggedly continues to apply her make-up and tries not to think about anything beyond the next few hours. If the whole fiasco with Leslie taught her anything, it's that the future is an empty page full of uncertainty, not a story already written.

She looks good. It's not a realisation that sits easily with her. Brains, not beauty, that's what she once overheard her father say. Doubtless it wasn't intended to be unkind, but the words have never really left her. Grace Foley, the bright, studious girl who always worked hard at school, and never really showed any interest in anything other than getting her own way and going off to university. The girl the boys never seemed to notice, and the other girls never needed to envy. Tonight, though… tonight she looks good. Short skirt, expensive Carnaby Street blouse, long white boots that she really couldn't afford but bought anyway in a moment of sheer madness.

Maybe she _should_ bleach her hair. Become the blonde she's certain she's supposed to be.

This time the tap on her bedroom door is a sharp, peremptory rap of knuckles. Can only be _him_.

"Come in," she instructs, adding the final touches to the heavy eyeliner that she knows makes her eyes look even bluer.

The door opens, and Boyd strides in with an energetic confidence that matches his engaging grin.

She's not the only one who looks good. The normally unkempt mane of dark hair is neatly combed back making it look smooth and glossy, and the thick profusion of bristly stubble has vanished. The old reefer jacket has disappeared, too, replaced by a shorter, much more jaunty and attractive denim jacket that sits over a fresh black tee-shirt and well-fitting jeans that don't look as if they've barely survived a very long and hard life. Realising that she's staring, Grace tries a valiant, "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Funny," he drawls. "You look stunning."

Stunning? Is he serious? He looks serious. Cautiously, Grace mumbles, "Thanks."

"Ready, then?"

"Almost," she confirms, getting up. "I just need to find some money."

"No, you don't," Boyd tells her, easy and unruffled, "and before you attempt to rip my balls off for being a male chauvinist pig, let me assure you that I'm perfectly happy with the idea of being a kept man once you're earning a bloody fortune chatting to incarcerated psychopaths."

How can she _not_ like him? Despite all Val's sombre warnings, how can she not like him? Smirking, Grace says, "There, and I thought I could be perfectly confident that you _weren't_ just after me for my money."

He grins back at her. "I'm investing in my future."

Picking up her jacket – faux fur from a chic little boutique in Soho – she nods. "Very wise of you."

Boyd follows her down the stairs, inquiring, "Where _is_ everyone?"

"Out or away," she says, then nods towards Deb's room, where the door stands ajar, indicating that its occupant is elsewhere. "You have an admirer, by the way."

He doesn't sound as smug as she expects as he says, "I do?"

"You do. She asked me if I knew whether or not you had a girlfriend."

 _That_ makes him chuckle. "Christ, I wish I'd seen that. What did you say?"

"That she should ask you."

"Thanks. Thanks a _lot_."

"She's a nice girl."

"She's a _kid_ , Grace."

She only just manages not to roll her eyes. "Says the old man of twenty-one."

"I've seen better tits on a – "

"Stop it," Grace scolds, meaning it. "Honestly, you can be so… objectionable… sometimes. The poor girl fancies you like mad. The least you can do is be nice about it."

Boyd scowls, his expression clouding. The dark brows draw together, and he mutters, "Fine. Whatever you say."

It's surly and it's not like him. Or perhaps it is. Saying nothing, Grace leads the way down the second flight of stairs and heads towards the front door. Let him sulk if he wants to. Dennis, her oldest brother, has always been a notorious sulker, and over the years she's become largely immune to the childish phenomenon. As they leave the house, she says, "I take it we're going to walk to the King's Head? It's only about ten minutes, or so."

"Yeah," he says, "I'm not riding the bike back after a few pints, and I'm not going to leave it there overnight for some bastard to nick."

"This way, then," she tells him, heading south along the street. He falls into step with her, hands buried in the pockets of his jeans. When she risks a furtive sideways glance, he's staring straight ahead, mouth set in a hard, straight line. Evidently, he _really_ doesn't like being rebuked. Well, she's not going to pander to him. Ignoring his sullen silence, she says, "How was Gallions Reach?"

"Cold." A pause, as if he's deciding whether or not to give in. He does. "Wind whips straight up the river, days like this. Tries to cut you in half."

Contemplating the words, Grace decides to ask, "Why do it, then?"

He casts her a quick, scathing look. "For the bloody money, of course."

"No," she says patiently, "I _mean_ , why do you do casual labouring jobs? You've got _A-levels_ , for heaven's sake. You could work in an office, or something."

Boyd snorts, his derision clear. "Not my thing. Not at _all_. Besides…"

"Yes?"

He hesitates, then forges on with, "Well, it's valuable experience, isn't it? I'm learning about all the dodges, all the fiddles that go on. I'm getting to know who the players are, who's likely to be behind what, all that sort of thing. It's stuff that's going to be useful."

"When you're a policeman?" Grace says, not in any way mocking him.

"Obviously."

There's method in his madness, then. She approves. "You're smarter than you look, aren't you, Just Boyd?"

He finally grins at her. "Got it in one, Doctor Foley."

"I'm not a doctor of anything yet," she points out.

"But you will be," is the confident reply. "No doubt about that, is there?"

She wishes she was half as sure. "Depends on how good my thesis is, doesn't it?"

"It'll be good," Boyd predicts, and surprises her by taking her hand and holding onto it as they turn the corner and start to walk along the main road. His grip is light, but firm. She likes the feel of it, the sense of security it conveys. Finds herself daring to hope that it will become a regular thing. Not all men are like Leslie, and maybe Peter Boyd is The One. Maybe they –

No. Don't try to predict the future. Just enjoy what _is_ , not what _might be_.

-oOo-

The King's Head is half-empty, which is just about as crowded as it ever gets. It's in the wrong location for tourists and is badly-placed for casual passing traffic. Most of the small but determined clientele are locals who live and work in the immediate vicinity. Given its position in relation to both the university's outlying campus and the thriving polytechnic not far from it there are always a few – mostly male – students hanging around, of course, but most prefer the bigger, more modern establishments that boast live music on at least a couple of nights a week. The best the King's Head can provide is an elderly and unreliable jukebox, though thanks to the landlord's teenage daughter, most of the music it offers is surprisingly up-to-date. Thus, they walk in to the somewhat incongruous background sound of T. Rex's _Children of the Revolution_ , which reminds Grace of how much her companion reminded her of Marc Bolan when she first saw him. The thought makes her smile, but though Boyd quirks a quizzical eyebrow at her, he doesn't ask the reason for her amusement. Just as well. She wonders what he would think of the comparison.

Given the sparse number of patrons it's not difficult to get to the bar, and as she glances around Grace can see several empty tables where they can sit and chat undisturbed. The predictable lack of crowding is one of the things she likes about the place. The landlord, a balding and stocky fifty-something man bears down on them, his manner gruff as he all-but barks, "What'll it be?"

"Pint of mild," Boyd tells him, apparently unfazed by the near-belligerence, "and…?"

"Gin and tonic," she decides. It's supposed to be a night out, after all, and she thinks she deserves the rare treat.

The landlord's surly expression remains somewhere between bored and aggressive. "Ice and lemon?"

Nodding, Grace looks round again, scanning for any sign of anyone she might know. There's a small but rowdy knot of young men in the far corner playing darts, a few indifferent-looking couples sitting together in pairs or fours, and a few morose-looking older men, one of whom is accompanied by a small brown dog of uncertain parentage. A thick fog of cigarette smoke swirls lazily at ceiling height. No-one is paying them the slightest bit of attention. She's about to return her attention to Boyd when one of the darts players half turns to address one of his friends. To her surprise she recognises him immediately. Larry.

He looks more animated than she's ever seen him, but that's not what catches and holds her attention. It's the fading black eye and the crusted split lip that do that. It could be a rugby injury, of course, except that the last time Grace saw him, much earlier in the week, he was unblemished, and his injuries are certainly a day or two old, so can't possibly be from any unfortunate altercation on the pitch today.

Boyd.

There's no real reason why he should be responsible, of course, but somehow Grace knows with cold certainty that he is. That very first night, the night he fried steak for them, and the three of them sat talking in the kitchen. She remembers Val's question – _"Please tell me that you didn't hit him?"_ – and her sceptical look at her brother's easy reply, and any trace of lingering doubt disappears.

He _lied_ to them.

Well, of course he did.

"Grace?" he says at her side. "Drink?"

Unsettled and angry, she takes the glass from him and walks away without a word of thanks, heading for the free table furthest away from the dartboard. Boyd follows her, looking mildly perplexed. Seats himself opposite her with a guarded, "You okay?"

"Fine," Grace mutters, not yet trusting herself to say anything else.

The dark eyes narrow. "Doesn't sound like it. What's the matter?"

She can't ignore it. She just _can't_. Staring at her glass, she says, "The night you arrived…"

"Yeah? What about it?" He sounds perplexed and not at all guilty.

"What happened with Larry?"

"Eh?"

Looking up, she says, "Val asked him to turn his music down and he told her to… Well, he wouldn't, anyway. You went upstairs to talk to him. What happened?"

Boyd frowns. " _Nothing_ happened. I told him not to be such a selfish prick, and he turned the music off. End of story."

He's good, but he's not quite good enough. Not to fool her. Grace knows he's lying. Just _knows_. They stare at each other for several long moments, the sudden tension of challenge spiking between them. Slow and deliberate, she shakes her head. "No. That's not what happened."

Something in his expression changes, closes. His voice is quiet – deceptively so – as he asks, "Where's all this come from?"

"Larry," she informs him. "He's over there by the dartboard looking as if he's gone ten rounds with Joe Frazier."

"So?" Boyd shrugs. "What's that got to do with – "

"Don't," Grace interrupts, a renewed surge of anger colouring her tone. "Don't bother even trying. I know when I'm being lied to."

His expression remains closed, hard, but she sees something in his eyes that tells her he's thinking very fast. In contrast, his eventual reply is slow and steady. "She's my sister."

It's an admission of guilt, and they both know it. Incredulous, Grace demands, "So, what, you beat him up?"

He glares at her. "I didn't 'beat him up'. Things just got a bit… heated. Look, I know his type, Grace. Bullies who think they can throw their weight around and do whatever the fuck they like. I won't stand for it. I never have, and I never will. I _won't_ be intimidated, not by the likes of him; not by any _one_."

She sees it then. Everything negative Val has ever told her about him. The obstinacy, the quick, fiery temper. The absolute refusal to give ground when he thinks he's in the right. It should be a shock, but it's not. Perhaps she always knew that Val was telling the truth. That there was no exaggeration, no bias. Holding his fierce gaze, she says, "I see. And what does that make _you_ , Boyd?"

"My own man," he retorts. "Men like him don't scare me."

There's a world of youthful male arrogance behind the juvenile declaration that sets her teeth on edge. "Am I supposed to be impressed?"

"I don't give a flying fuck whether you're impressed or not. Nobody pushes me around, Grace. _Nobody_."

"Oh, grow up," she snaps at him, the words out of her mouth before she can stop them. "Do you have any idea of how bloody ridiculous you sound?"

It's the wrong thing to say. The volume of his voice rises as he throws back, "'Ridiculous'? Oh, I'll tell you what's ridiculous, Grace. People like _him_ thinking they're better than people like _me_ , just because they got a bloody place at university."

"People like _him_ ," she challenges, "or people like _me_?"

"Don't try to twist my words," he snarls at her, his posture rigid and defiant. "It's just people like _him_ I have a problem with. Upper-middle-class Hoorays who've been handed everything on a fucking plate their whole lives and think they can run roughshod over the rest of us because of it."

"Oh, come on, he's not _that_ bad," she protests, but despite herself she feels a twinge of sympathy. Of fellow-feeling.

"No?" Boyd demands. "So it was perfectly acceptable for him to call my sister a 'stupid little slut who should mind her own damn business', was it?"

Astonished, Grace gapes at him. Finds her voice to say, "Larry said _that_?"

"Yes, he fucking _did_. Now tell me I was wrong to stick one on him."

Looking across at the young men by the dartboard, whose behaviour seems to be getting ever-rowdier, Grace shakes her head. "Violence doesn't solve anything… but I understand why you did it."

"Do you." It's not a question.

Irked by his cynical tone, she allows herself to glare at him. "Yes, _actually_. I grew up in a back-to-back terrace just three hundred yards from the mill where half my family still work. My father was a poorly-paid Irish labourer who unexpectedly dropped down dead at work one day, and until I was eight, I had to share a bedroom with two brothers, neither of whom have ever backed down from a fight in their lives. Do you _really_ want to start trading hard luck stories?"

Boyd is watching her with solemn intensity, she realises, his fury of a few moments before seemingly completely dissipated. His voice is low and even as he says, "I'm sorry. About your father."

It's a response that takes her by surprise. He's changed again, become quiet and serious. Empathic, even. Allowing a tight nod, she says, "Thank you."

"You know what it's like, then," he says after a few moments, "to defend your own, come hell or high water?"

She does, and she's not prepared to deny it. "Oh yes. My brothers used to torment me all the time when I was little, but if someone _else_ was nasty to me…"

"…they immediately closed ranks," Boyd finishes for her. "Same in our family. James, my second-eldest brother, used to box my ears every bloody chance he got, but when some of the other kids in the street decided to beat me up after school one day… well, let's just say he quickly sorted the problem out."

"Baby of the family?" Grace teases, hiding a smile. Val told her he was the youngest long ago, but it's the first time there's been an opportunity to discuss it with him. It seems as good a way as any to turn the conversation firmly away from his confrontation with Larry.

"That's me," he agrees. He couldn't sound more nonchalant. "Four years younger than Val, six years younger than Jamie, and _eleven_ years younger than Phil. I gather I was something of an unwelcome surprise to my poor dear mother."

It's impossible to tell if he's joking or not. Deciding not to pass comment, she says, "I'm the middle one."

"Ah. The peacemaker, eh?"

"Certainly felt like it sometimes," she admits, remembering the way Robert and Dennis used to squabble and scrap. How many times she ended up separating them before they could do real damage to each other, she really can't remember. "They're both married now, my brothers. Robert has four-year-old twins, and Dennis has a six-month old baby girl."

"Phil and Jamie are both married," Boyd tells her, "though in the latter's case…"

"Ah. The shotgun wedding?"

He nods. "Just about sums it up, yeah. She's a sweet little thing, though, my niece."

"What about you? Can you see yourself getting married?" Grace asks, before really thinking about it. Immediately wishes she hadn't.

Boyd doesn't seem ruffled as he replies, "It's not something I've thought too much about. I suppose I wouldn't rule it out. At some point. You?"

A faint, dull pain flares. "There was a time."

His gaze remains level. "The infamous Leslie?"

Startled, Grace almost chokes on a mouthful of gin and tonic. "Val _told_ you about that?"

"It formed a significant part of at least one of the lectures," Boyd admits. "It was serious, then?"

More than she's prepared to admit, but she allows herself to murmur, " _I_ was naïve enough to think so."

"Lucky escape, if you ask me," he tells her with a loose shrug. "Leslie's a girls' name."

"That's Lesley," she corrects, grateful for his surprising ability to defuse a raw moment. "Lesley with a 'y'."

He smirks. "Not like Gracie with an 'ie'?"

"I'm not going to warn you about that again," she growls, but she suspects that she will. He seems to enjoy it far too much to stop doing it. Movement catches her eye, and she looks past him to see Larry heading for the bar. One casual glance their way, she thinks, is all it will take for him to identify them. Maybe he won't look towards them, won't notice them. Looking back at Boyd, she says, "So what about you? Have you had your heart broken?"

"Not yet. There's this one woman, though…"

There's a note of weary resignation in his voice that makes Grace reach past a brief, unexpected, but very real stab of bitter disappointment to inquire, "Married?"

"No," he says, sounding genuinely surprised. "No, she's not married."

"Unattainable, then," she suggests, wondering why she feels the need to dwell on the matter. Pure masochism, perhaps.

"What makes you say that?" Boyd asks with a frown.

"A double first in psychology and anthropology, for a start," Grace replies, only a little sardonic. The look he gives her in response makes her continue, "You're a very confident young man; cocky, even. When it comes to women you have… certain innate advantages… over a lot of your peers, which you're well-aware of, and yet the question immediately put you on the defensive."

"Jesus," he says, picking up his depleted pint glass. "You really are scarily good, aren't you?"

"I hope to be. One day." Finishing her own drink, she considers him for a moment, and then says, "So? You think she'll break your heart?"

"I think… she just might." Again, he sounds resigned. "She's a high-flyer, you see. Not the sort to settle for a simple plod with several years on the beat ahead of him."

Another painful twist of disappointment tightens inside her. So _that's_ why he's interested in her. Can't have what he wants, so is prepared to make do with what he can get, instead. And she made it so, so easy for him. She won't give him the satisfaction of visible anger or outrage, though. She _won't_. Absolutely calm, she says, "That's destructive thinking, Boyd. It sounds to me as if you're predicting a negative outcome based purely on your own suppositions."

"If you and I are going to stay friends," he says, "you're going to have to learn to speak in a language that actually makes sense to me."

Grace sighs, making a great show of it. "Man think he know woman's mind. Man not necessarily right. Man shoots self in foot."

He grins straight at her. "Ah. Man understand."

"Thank God for that," she mutters.

Boyd hasn't finished. "But woman not understand man."

"Do we really have to carry this on?" she inquires, his insouciance grating on her. " _You_ might be a Neanderthal at heart, but _I'm_ not, and trust me, it's not half as funny as you think it is."

"You've gone cold on me," he observes, surprising her. "I wonder why that could be?"

She snorts. "I can't _possibly_ imagine, can you?"

"It's _you_ ," he says, more a touch of amused exasperation edging his voice. "I think maybe _you_ could be the one who ends up breaking my damn heart, Grace Foley."

" _Me_?" Stunned, she stares at him in complete disbelief.

Boyd nods. " _You_."

Oh.

-oOo-

"You should go home," Grace says, as they prepare to step out into the cold evening. "Patch things up with your father."

"Oh, I will," Boyd agrees, holding the door open for her, "but I'll give it another day or two before I risk it. Give him a decent chance to find out for himself that I've paid off my debt to Jimmy the Turk first."

Curiosity gets the better of her. "That's why you fell out? Because you owed money?"

He shakes his head. "Not because I owed money, but because I owed money to _Jimmy_. Bit of an old family feud. I'll tell you all about it someday."

"Will you, now," she says, linking her arm through his as they start to walk. Tells herself it's just an instinctive reaction to the late-evening chill.

"I will," he confirms. "Tonight, though…"

Turning her head, Grace raises her eyebrows at him. "Yes?"

There's a sly, foxy look in his eyes that she doesn't trust one little bit. But quite likes, all the same. "Everyone's out, remember? We've got the house to ourselves."

"We have," she concurs, straight-faced. "Another day or two, eh?"

Boyd nods, every bit as deadpan as she is. "Oh, at _least_. Give the old man a chance to really calm down."

Smirking to herself as she considers the possibilities, she offers an innocent, "Well, I really don't know how you're going to survive a few more nights sleeping on that wretchedly uncomfortable sofa."

"Nor me," is the mournful reply. "My back's never going to be the same again. You know what the Christian thing to do would be, don't you?"

"To offer you a place in my nice, comfortable bed?" Grace suggests. The terrifying spectre of the fiery hell promised by Father Donovan rises again. She stubbornly chooses to ignore it and it fades slowly away.

Boyd is grinning again. "Well, if you're offering…"

Rapid footsteps behind them make them look round. They've been followed. Larry, and three of his friends. The quartet are gaining ground faster than a normal pace would allow, and it doesn't take Grace more than a split-second to realise that they intend trouble. _Serious_ trouble, from the hard, fixed look on Larry's battered face. Her heart starts to pound as a sudden surge of adrenaline is released into her bloodstream.

Next to her, Boyd mutters, " _Shit_."

They're not far from the corner of the street, but unless they run, they're going to be overtaken before they reach the better-lit main road with its increased chance of passers by who might, just _might_ , interfere. Releasing her light grip on his arm and seizing Boyd's hand instead, Grace urges, "Come on. _Run_."

"In _those_ bloody heels?" he demands, looking down at her feet.

Her boots. Her damn boots. He's right. A fast, hazardous totter might be the very best she can manage, and there's absolutely no way she can quickly kick them off. Caught by real fear, she freezes. "Peter…"

"Go," he says, shaking off her hand, "fast as you can. It's _me_ they want, not you."

Pivotal moment. A decision to make, one that's about far, far more than running away or standing up to Larry and his friends. Stay at Boyd's side and accept the risk or leave him behind and flee to safety.

No time to think. Has to be an instinctive choice.

She makes the decision. "No."

His eyes widen. "Jesus fucking _Christ_ , Grace…"

 _She's_ stubborn, too. And brave. Turning to face the oncoming men, she looks straight at Larry, loudly demands, "What's going on?"

The answer is simple and predictable. "Ask _him_."

They're like wolves. It's the only comparison Grace can make. The way they pounce on their prey, the way they work together as a pack. Pushed back from the violent scuffle, she tries to intervene, tries to at least make it difficult for them, but one of the young men, tall and square, pushes her away with enough force to make her stumble and graze her palm on the rough brickwork she grabs to steady herself.

It's not elegant. Not at all like the carefully choreographed fist-fights she grew up seeing in the black-and-white films both her brothers loved. Boyd fights back, but though he's tenacious he's no match for the four burly young men who rain kicks and punches down on him from all angles. It's the worst thing Grace has ever witnessed, and it's her cries – high and frightened – that bring others out of the pub to investigate the commotion. A handful of older men start up the street towards them, shouting as they run, and as Boyd falls somewhere in the middle of the pack, she screams at them to help, to stop the merciless beating taking place on the pavement.

A final heavy-booted kick from the shortest and stockiest of Larry's friends seems to be the signal for them to break away, to head for the corner at a run, shouting and hooting as they got. Only Larry looks back for a brief second before disappearing, and the look on his face is chilling – a contemptuous leer of triumph and satisfaction.

The older group of men draw to a halt, at least one of them panting hard at the unaccustomed exertion. A thin man dressed in a shabby, old-fashioned suit goes to Boyd, crouches down with a grunt and demands, "You all right, son?"

"Call the police," Grace begs, as another of the men offers her a supportive arm. "Please…"

The entreaty falls on deaf ears. Her rescuer is looking at Boyd as he addresses the man crouching beside him. "Boy okay, Dave?"

"Yeah," is the laconic reply. "He'll live. Up you get, lad."

It takes two of them to haul Boyd to his feet. He staggers between them but manages to stay upright. Disorientated and dazed, he doesn't offer any resistance as they lean him up against the wall Grace grabbed for support just a few minutes earlier.

Shrugging off the man still holding onto her, she makes her shaky way across to him. Even in the shadowy gloom of inadequate street-lighting, he looks a mess, one eye almost closed and his face streaked with blood. She starts to shiver, guesses it's the shock. Putting a hand on his shoulder, she manages a weak, "Peter…?"

Boyd hears her, lifts his head to look at her. Offers a thin, desperate attempt at a grin that emerges as a pained grimace.

"Call the police," she says again, looking past Boyd to the thin man – Dave – who'd crouched down next to him.

"Probably ain't the best idea, miss," one of the others says in a harsh South London accent. "Kid's all right, that's the main thing."

Incredulous, she snaps back, "All _right_? _Look_ at him."

"Seen worse," the man sniffs. " _Been_ in worse. You coming back inside, Roy?"

"Yeah," Roy – the man who'd taken her arm – replies. Glancing at her, he says, "Best take him home and patch him up, love. Cold night to be hanging around out here too long."

It's _normal_ , Grace realises, shocked. To them, it's completely normal. Just another brief scuffle outside a run-down London pub on an ordinary Saturday night. Nothing to get excited about.

Moments later it's just the two of them and all the fresh splashes of blood on the pavement that look black in the artificial light.

"Peter…" she says again, rendered inarticulate by what's happened. She's still trembling, feels as if her legs might give way under her at any moment.

Propped against the wall, Boyd makes another valiant attempt to grin, but the result is no better than the first. He croaks, "Did I win?"

The stubborn, stupid bravado brings Grace a fraction closer to understanding him, to fully comprehending just how strong-willed and defiant he really is. How determined not to be dictated to by the world or anything in it. Qualities that make her feel a contradictory mixture of admiration and despair as she catches an imaginary glimpse of the difficult future that lies ahead for him if he doesn't learn how to at least appear to conform.

"Crazy," she snaps at him, and then, just because the occasion calls for it, adds a fierce, "completely _fucking_ crazy."

Boyd makes a weak and unsuccessful attempt to straighten up and stand unaided. "Me, or them?"

" _You_ , you idiot," Grace growls, fighting back tears of shock and relief. It's encouraging that he's willing and able to talk, but she's still not certain how badly hurt he is. Pragmatism takes hold. "Look, there's a phone box on the main road. Will you be all right here on your own for a couple of minutes?"

"No police," he mutters, wincing as his fingertips explore the swollen, bloody contours of his face. Her disbelief must show because he continues, "Oh, think about it, will you, Grace? I'm applying to Hendon in a couple of months. How's it going to look if it's on record that I was fighting in the street outside a pub?"

"But you were the victim, not the perpetrator!"

"No police," he repeats. He shakes his head and winces at the discomfort it obviously causes. "It's not… how this sort of thing is dealt with."

"Meaning?" she demands, but she knows the answer. It's the same in the community she grew up in – problems are sorted out and scores are settled without recourse to authority. Police officers are viewed with suspicion, seen as a necessary evil to be kept at arms' length wherever possible. All the more bizarre that Boyd should be so set on joining their ranks.

"Just drop it, eh?" he tells her, interrupting her train of thought. "They gave me a damn good kicking, and I'm really not in the mood to argue with you."

It's not Grace's decision to make, even if she thinks he's a fool. And she does. "All right, all right. I'm not happy about it, but if you insist I'll just call an ambulance."

He forces himself away from the wall. "No ambulance, either, Grace. I'll live. Just help me stagger back to the house, and I'll be fine."

Obstinate, stupid, infuriating… She takes a deep breath, holds it for a second or two. Exhaling, she forces herself to accept the complete futility of attempting to reason with him. He'll learn, or he won't. Nothing she can do about it. Striving for calm, she asks, "What about Larry?"

Boyd is examining the damage to his ripped and bloodstained jacket. He looks up, one thick, unruly lock of dark hair falling across his forehead. "What about him? He's hardly going to have gone back there, is he? If he's got any bloody sense, he'll wait for a quiet moment, grab his stuff and do a disappearing act. Let the landlord chase him."

Studying him, Grace voices a blunt, "You look terrible."

He grimaces. "Thank you."

"I really think you should see a doctor, Boyd."

"Why?" he asks, shaking his head. "Just so they can tell me I've got a couple of busted ribs they can't do a thing about and then give me a bollocking for behaving like a hooligan? Yeah, I'll pass on that, thanks."

"Why are you so damn stubborn?" Grace demands, what little patience she's got left ebbing fast. "You could be seriously hurt."

"I'm not."

"You _could_ be," she insists. It almost surprises her how much she cares.

Boyd shakes his head again. "I'm _not_. Just a bit bruised and battered. A long hot bath and a good night's sleep and I'll be fine, you'll see."

"Will I."

"I bloody hope so," he says. Another attempt at a grin, marginally more successful this time. "Unless you've decided to leave me in exile on the sofa, after all."

He really is incorrigible. Damn him. And damn _her_ , too, for finding it so intriguing. Grace lifts her chin a haughty fraction. "You forget, I never actually offered you an alternative."

"I think you should," Boyd says, taking a careful, experimental step towards her.

If he tries to kiss her now, Grace decides, she'll slap him. Or perhaps just kiss him back with twice the fury he expects. Still haughty, she asks, "Why?"

"Because you rather like me?" he suggests. "Because _I_ rather like _you_? Because last night was – "

" _You_ , Peter Boyd," she interrupts, not sure she can hear whatever he's got to say without finally bursting into tears, "are trouble. I didn't need Val to point it out to me, I knew it the moment I set eyes you."

He almost smiles. "Funny, I thought exactly the same thing about you. 'There's a woman who's going to cause me no end of trouble', I thought."

They stare at each of for several long seconds before Grace asks, "Can you walk?"

Boyd nods. "Yeah, I think so. Slowly."

"Best do what the man said and go home, then," she says, weary and resolute as she holds out a hand to him, "hadn't we?"

 _\- the end -_


End file.
